Had to Choose
by gammameta
Summary: After Getting There, Rogue and Logan may be breaking up. Let's finish this sucker. They talk. On and on for hours, after 9 chapters of NOT TALKING. Thank heavens. They choose.
1. PreMission, PreArgument

**I: PRE-MISSION, PRE-ARGUMENT**

They always had sex pre-mission. And the sex was sweet, sometimes slow, and he always smiled lazily down at her when he was done.

He seemed happy, almost grateful, and she wondered why he seemed this way before missions, of all things. She could understand a carpe-diem-type coupling, an anxious mindless fuck, but this…was easy familiarity and warm sharing. She didn't understand that, not when this was possibly the last time or the last time for a long time or the last peaceful time. But he didn't strive for meaningful or desperate – just…happy.

She let it happen, and she appreciated it, the feeling of being loved, of being totally in the moment. And of not thinking, Not THINKING, of the mission the next day, at least while he was touching her.

The sex also seemed to send him to sleep. Almost immediately. He'd smile happily, goofily, rub noses, smell her, them, and pillow himself on her stomach. Sometimes, he'd grin up at her gently one last time before burrowing in her chest, but he was always asleep within minutes, a deeper sleep than normal, one without nightmares.

He seemed at peace then, really only then, and she wouldn't begrudge him that. Not even if she didn't wholly understand it.

She didn't sleep before a mission, dozed on a good day, but she liked this time with him, his head lying on her breast, his hand curved round her waist. He was totally hers at that moment, in ways he never was during the day, and she was grateful she had this. This moment, these hours as she stroked his hair and felt him breathe: this was her peace.

She'd take it, she'd take him, even if it took a mission to get it.

They were raiding a lab, their first, their only. It was the same lab in Ohio that Rogue had investigated two years ago. Sometimes strange to remember that: because they'd learned so much more and tried so hard, in other ways, to fix that, expose that. But they were ready to fight now, strike now. Xavier was growing bolder.

The timing, yes, it looked political. The MRA, passed by the House, pending in the Senate, had provoked a few mealy civil liberties protests, a wary ambivalence in public opinion. The FoH was louder, though: 'Mutant menace,' 'We need to know what they know', 'Not with our children', etc. And crimes against mutants were rising, felt like the tide was turning.

Perhaps the political climate explained why their previous efforts had failed. They'd done some digging, tracked the careers of the head scientists, leaked information, leads to reporters. They'd gotten some muted reports out of it, mutterings, sly paragraphs on page 26B. Reporters were running scared, and the paper trail hadn't proved very effective: 'state secrets', 'executive privilege'.

When Xavier had found a former employee from the base, confirmed mutant experimentation, when their contacts had refused to publish such reports, and when the government looked prepared to move the base elsewhere, Xavier and the X-men had decided to act. It was their only confirmed base; it was their last chance.

There was an air of righteousness about it, too—a sense of making this right for the mutants they had known about for months now—they would be freeing them.

But this mission was going to be a dicey. They wanted to expose the labs but protect the prisoners, had to leak evidence but hide their own involvement. They had to kick up a lot of dust, remain spotless themselves.

Yeah. No tall order there.

Luckily, they knew this lab. They knew the combinations of codes to get in, the strength of the security team, the layout of the building. They knew the area, the land. And they were X-men and mutants. They had the element of surprise. But—yeah, no one was looking forward to this. Not really.

Three, and possibly four, mutants had been confirmed at this site as late as two months ago. A few humans in experiments, too, oddly enough. Three scientists/doctors, seven professional staff members, and about twenty rotating guards.

The plan was to go in at night, cut off communications, drop the four guards on duty, liberate the prisoners, and collect documentation. Later, pictures and documents (copies that didn't identify their mutant subjects) would be leaked to the press, along with the location of the lab.

Rogue had glanced penetratingly at Logan when the mission was in the planning stages—how was he with the whole 'experimentation' thing—but he seemed unaffected, and she pushed her worry away, knowing it pissed him off. But she was relieved, nevertheless, when she was assigned to his team.

Though, based on his look of smug satisfaction, that had been his doing. He'd always been rather protective of her—he'd never really gotten over the Magneto thing, she thought—and since they'd got together two years ago, he'd just gotten less gentle with it. Felt he could be more demanding, perhaps? Something. It was easing some now, had been really bad a year ago, when she'd gone on her first real mission. But it had settled into harsh commands, the occasional insufferable remark. She could take that, and she'd learned how far she could push back.

It was the way they worked, the way things went. She didn't question it. Because Logan could be generous and he could be sweet – if he was sometimes also uncommunicative and possessive, brusque and demanding, well…she'd take what she could get.

So, 'You're on my team, darlin',' he cocked a cute brow.

'That's right, so don't be trying any crazy shit with me,' she warned, and he smirked back. That's right. Protectiveness could go too far. And, she supposed, it went both ways.

Teams: To the east - Scott & Kitty, west - Rogue & Logan, and north - Storm & Remy. Jubes and Bobby were meeting them there off-site, in an unmarked van. It would transport them closer to the site, haul away the documentation after. Bobby had sulked initially, but it was pretty fleeting—he was older now. And he got to fly the jet over to the site, after they'd secured the compound. Xavier let him handle the 'very important' arrangements for securing van, asked Jubilee to surreptitiously oversee them.

Onboard the Blackbird: blank mission gazes, flopping heads in time with the jerky movements of the jet. Logan and Scott checked the equipment compulsively, eyes narrowed, thinking for the rest of them.

Scott started pacing, Remy and Storm murmuring; they must be close to landing. Logan, keen-eyed, grabbed her elbow, 'On me. Stay with me.' Like she needed the reminder, but his warning wasn't really about her.

She nodded dumbly, a little concerned: Logan was too intent this time, thinking too much, instead of playing to his usual animal instincts. And while that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, she had a suspicion it was because he didn't trust them here.

But the jet was landing, the crew was stirring. Easy touchdown, about ten miles from the compound, and a thickening quiet, as they surveyed the field, saw a flickering light – Jubilee and Bobby in the van. Logan disembarked, promptly ate his words by waving her back, as he and Scott set out alone to meet them. Covering for the team.

And really, gazing after the two of them, they were both leaders tonight. Co-commanders, really. It was apparent in the set of their shoulders, in the way they walked abreast, made room for the other. Jean's death had had the one positive effect of making the two of them into better leaders.

The van crawled over after a moment, Logan hanging a ride, and Jubes threw upon a door, 'All aboard,' she chimed. They clambered in. Bobby staying with the jet—Rogue mock-saluted him because he never saw the irony in that—Jubes' tuneless whistling as they settled in for a quiet, creeping ride.

It was pitch-black outside, felt too soon, when Jubes tore open the door, 'I'm kicking you out, guys.' Getting used to the darkness and testing the radios, one last check to the equipment. Storm, white-eyed already as she gathered the rain clouds, some atmospheric wind. Not too much: who wanted to get wet? And two guards walked a beat outside, every hour. No use if weather kept 'em inside.

The teams split up: Logan and Scott's round to the west and east, Storm's to the north and its entrance. The guards exited to the south. They weren't in any real danger from them. In fact, this mission wasn't that dangerous at all: unless they were caught. But taking the first two guards out before weather could block the satellites meant it had to be quiet. Doubly hard since they couldn't kill—sucked being the good guys. But the X-men were good.

And they didn't have to wait long.

The guards weren't good. She could hear the chatting drift east, instead of west towards Scott and Kitty. Logan's guarding hand, pushing her back against the wall, a sharp glance. Whatever. He needed her, and after the guards passed a step, they came from behind with a blow to the windpipe, injected a tranquilizing agent into the neck. Fast-acting, thank you, Dr. Hank, and the guards fell, she and Logan dragging their prone bodies into the shadows after them. She got a grunt from Logan: high praise.

So, that part was done, just two more inside. Logan's low murmur over the radio, hearing Scott's assent. Storm taking this opportunity to destroy the largest satellite now—lucky strike—crack of lightning, loud rumble of thunder. Too suspicious to take out every satellite, but Storm was making it look good, having fun with a bit more lightning in their neighborhood. Scott and Kitty trotted towards the south entrance to try their luck with the codes.

'Something's wrong,' Logan peering from his crouch, pushing her back. 'They're not gettin' in.' And only moments later, she heard light footfalls, jogging steps, and Scott and Kitty came round to them, squatted in the shadows beside them.

'Codes don't work,' Scott informed them. 'Must have changed them.'

'Shouldn'ta drugged 'em,' Logan kicked one of the guards, as though to determine whether persuasion might wake them up.

Slight glitch in the plan.

'I'll touch one,' Rogue offered, low.

No,' he grabbed her arm roughly. 'Not until we've tried something else.'

And—well, she agreed. Never a pleasant thing to do, and she'd be useless to them afterwards. But if they wasted too much time, it might come to that. The guards would be missed.

Kitty appeared, face too white, 'Let me go. I can get in.'

'Fine,' Logan affirmed, insultingly quickly, getting a quick nod of assent from Scott. So, fine, yeah, maybe she was being a baby about this?—but her way could get them all in, didn't put one person at risk, guaranteed not to set off alarms. And what were the odds Logan would let her go in by herself—but, sure, fine for Kitty.

OK, yeah, had she had those thoughts, that would totally make her a baby. 'Careful,' she winked a goodbye to Kitty, because not mad at her, certainly. Kitty winked back, tripped through the shadows, gone.

Rogue did roll her eyes when Logan took off with Scott to scope out the other exit, leaving her there on the south side with—that's right, nothing. They dragged off the fallen guards, even.

Then silence her end. Fifteen long minutes. Leg falling asleep. Something was happening—storm picking up. Within seconds, she was drenched. Baleful look to the skies. Fucking Storm only had good aim with the lightning.

Then a loud clank, Rogue tensed, stream of light came falling out of the building, and 'Rogue,' a loud call from the door. Jesus, they would scare her like that. 'Get in here,' Logan demanded impatiently.

'Oh, did I keep YOU waiting?' she panted out as she sprinted past him. He was not in the mood. She flipped her hair, droplets of water to the ground. 'So—secured?' This was anticlimactic. For her.

He ignored her, clomping down the narrow hall. She flapped off most of the water, trailed after.

'C'mon, we gotta get 'em out.' She loved how much a part of this she was.

But as he went into the wings, she was hit with a faint sense of dejá vu, grabbed his shirt. 'Wait—this is the wrong way. It's down a floor.'

'We found 'em up here,' he tugged, seemed to register her frown, though. 'Ya sure?'

'Yeah. Someone's down there. Or was.'

He eyed the corridor, eyed her narrowly. He pinched the transmitter, informed Scott of where they were going. Aw, that was love—or, you know, whatever they had. She could tell he didn't quite believe her.

'C'mon. Follow me,' she darted past, before he could change his mind. Down the grated stairs, to a smaller, darker hallway, lit only by emergency lights. Yeah, all eerily familiar. Got to the door with the vault-like wheel, subtle keypad to the side, tried to remember for a second.

'You don't know the codes,' he gruffed. 'We'll have to get Scott.' Well, she was glad, at least, he wasn't setting to rip through the door himself with his big manly claws. The hinges weren't even on this side, steel must be inches thick but…

Vague memory—she popped in a few numbers—Keycode incorrect Keycode incorrect. She was a little nervous. Was there an automatic lockdown after a certain number of consecutive guesses? Keycode incorrect. And maybe the codes inside had changed as well. But—fourth try was a charm. Heavy clicks, large thuds.

'I'm useful for somethin',' she told him, and he swung open the door.

He wouldn't let her go first here, kept shoving her behind. And these were—these were the labs here. Straps, chairs, computers, devices. Eerie lights, squeaky tile, and the strong smell of Lysol. This was cleaner, brighter than the labs Logan had been in, but she wasn't sure that was better for him.

They entered a smaller room—and she knew, off to the right, murmured to him. Large, grey door, small reinforced window, and very dark inside. Couldn't see. But she could smell: something living and unwashed. And she was glad she hadn't Logan's senses—pretty godawful just for her.

'In there,' he murmured. 'Ya know the code?' She didn't, not to this one. He examined the door, popped a claw, and the Logan she was used to for missions, he was back, pacing slightly, sniffing, animalistic movements. She edged away, gave him space.

'They're not movin'. Only one, but I want you to stay the HELL away,' he shoved her back. 'Get out your weapon. I'm cuttin' the bolt.' At least it wasn't a vault this time.

It was a shrill noise, then a bang as he kicked the door open, too loud, empty echo, and she stayed crouched there for a moment, until she was sure the inmate wasn't leaping out. But she wanted to make sure the Wolverine didn't claw 'em to death, either.

'Logan?' she clambered up to the doorway, weapon still drawn. Couldn't see a blessed thing.

'Drugged,' he croaked, almost unrecognizably. Like terribly upset animal-Logan, not enraged. Wounded?

'Ok,' she answered when she got nothing more, shifting uncomfortably in her crouch. And nothing—no other sound. 'I'm getting a light.' Rummaging to find one. Click—light.

An instant tableau, Logan still and kneeling over a small cot, the bare outline of concrete walls, grate, toilet in the corner. 'Logan?' she pressed, stepping forward cautiously.

He was unresponsive, almost struck, and she darted a more quizzical glance round, padded up behind him. What kind of condition must the prisoner be in to provoke this kind of reaction? Not dead, he'd said—drugged? The prisoner, and seeking out the face, she realized, she recognized…it was Jean.

Jean. Really Jean, breathing and not dead. Alive after all this—three years. And the images hit her, of Alkali Lake, of the diluvial waters rushing up, Rogue petrified and helpless and stupidly not knowing how to fly the jet, Pyro gone and Logan—Jean saving all of them and the waters pounding down on top of her, Scott's anguish and the pained silence as they—all rushing back. Jean, alive, after all this time. She-she was…

She'd been tortured, shit. Had she been here for three years? Suddenly her condition, her state of health seemed of primary importance, and Rogue reached forward, sought to ascertain—

Growl, fierce, and flash of teeth—woah! Logan wouldn't let her near.

Shit. This must be…must be something for him…you know, too.

She backed off, shakily noting the way his hands were running over Jean now, her face, body, arms, and legs, and he was wound, very wound up.

'How is she?'

He didn't respond, still the restless exploration, cupping, feverish, and he'd—well, obviously he'd loved her, she couldn't help but remember that, too.

She couldn't look away—shock, his hands on Jean—and it felt wrong, she felt wrong, that she couldn't. She was drawn forward, with no clear idea why, just wanting to be closer suddenly, wanting him to see her, to notice her. RIGHT HERE. Until he rounded on her, snarled. The claws out—snikt—FROZE. Yellow eyes, Wolverine.

'Ok, ok,' she placated, just as gingerly backing up, and he watched her with those glowing, dead eyes the whole time, a snarl, sneer—God, Logan. But she wasn't truly terrified until he suddenly snapped his teeth and lunged forward, claws out, and—shit! skin ON—she was chased into the far corner. He backed off then, eyeing her warily, sniffing, the occasional growl in her direction, and pacing the room now, cutting off both Jean and the door. Guarding Jean, in fact. She was just going to stay here, then.

Well…

What the—what did she do now?

'Logan?' Only, of course, he didn't look like Logan. Shit. She wasn't going to cry, not at all. He threw her some darted glances, still agitated, a growing confusion. Maybe she could capitalize on that. 'Logan. I need to know how she is. I need you to tell me how she is.' His pacing was slowing, head cocked to her. She gestured but made no other move. 'Can you tell me if she's alright? Jean.' Maybe he understood?

On his next pass, he slowed somewhat by the cot, those yellow eyes fastening on hers, and she urged him on—the claws went in, and he laid a soft hand on Jean's shoulder. 'That's right,' she encouraged, while he regarded her with that same steady look. 'Good, Logan. How is she?' He turned slightly to Jean, was beginning to move in a less predatory manner when—

ONK ONK ONK

Logan jerked up at the sound of the alarms, and he roared, sprang away, crazy hands to his head against the sound, swinging, and fine, that was just FINE, when she was just getting him back and she was pretty sure alarms weren't good, just in general.

'Logan, give me the radio,' she yelled over the insane shriek of the alarms, of him. Even drugged, how could Jean still be unconscious for this? And he looked manic, swinging his arms, and fuck, he could skewer her and she would suck the hell out of him for all she cared. They could die down here together.

She heard the squawk from the box at his chest, something unintelligible garbling, and she darted in, firmly blocking his waving arms, grabbed the mike away. Phew! He staggered back, gave another impotent roar, and started pacing tightly and semi-cowering in her corner. Good, role reversal could be a bitch, but she was all for the sane one being in charge.

'Scott?' she called, strained and high as she eyed Logan, confined but still crazy in his corner, and over her shoulder, the comatose Jean. 'You wanna tell me what's going on?'

'Rogue. Just a second, Rogue.' And that 'second' seemed interminable, with the ear-splitting alarms and Jean and Logan and her grimly breathing, waiting with the transmitter held high and tight. After a few minutes, the alarms turned off abruptly, and Wolverine's rasps, low growls and tread could again be heard. And the smell. Don't forget the smell.

She tapped the transmitter impatiently. 'Rogue,' the scratchy voice again. 'The alarms went off.'

'Did they?'

She could almost hear the smile in Scott's voice, though he was still all business. 'We cleared the sky to land the jet out front, but the document room was wired. Signal got through by satellite.'

'Which means we have how long?' Logan still pacing.

'Twenty minutes for local. An hour for military.' Checking her watch. Fine.

Well. But face-to-face with a disturbed, territorial Logan, looking over her shoulder at Jean—fuck, this wasn't going to work.

'Rogue, ten minutes. Did you find anything?'

'Yes, we found a prisoner.' She needed back-up, though; they needed back-up. Because she couldn't move Jean with Wolverine here, and…they might have to take out Logan, as well.

She refused to feel guilty when he was fucking crazy.

So backup: who? Gotta be strong—Logan was heavy. Was it—was it wrong, ok, if it was Scott? Logan respected him, at least. Really had a thing against Remy. Maybe Bobby? No, seriously. And with Jean, too…Was it wrong if it wasn't Scott? Just where should her loyalties lie? Dammit! This was a mission. Who needed pesky ethical dilemmas now?

Fuck, Scott was either the best choice or the worst…and wasn't there a part of her that was very interested in which it was? Staring at Wolverine, his agitated pacing still. 'Scott, the prisoner is Jean. We found Jean.'

Silence. Then the very careful, 'Jean?'

'Scott, get down here now.' And she was pretty sure she didn't have to tell him twice.

It wasn't long, and Wolverine heard/smelled him before she did, jerking still from his pacing, and without turning, she called out, 'In here. Wolverine, too.' And she held up a palm, bracing, because if she needed to take him out, she was going for the face. Scott didn't heal after.

She was murmuring low words and phrases to Wolverine, no clear idea what she was saying, but in the general persuasion of no one dying today and staying in this goddamn corner, Scott on his way. Wolverine's gaze swiveled, shrewd, knowing animal eyes; she didn't turn. Just…'Hey, Scott,' she couldn't hide the relief in her voice there, and the strain. 'Careful now; it's Wolverine.'

It was a still moment, Wolverine's depthless glare, his nostrils flared, but silence. And something passed between the two; she wasn't sure, she could only see Logan, but after a few moments, Scott crossed behind her to Jean, turned his back to kneel over her, and she knew they'd be okay. No one was going to die, at least.

But she'd failed to imagine how uncomfortable it would feel, standing there guarding Wolverine. She could hear Scott's soft reunion, her back giving him a false privacy, feeling the shock anew, and watching Wolverine watch them with those flashing yellow eyes.

Scott might be crying. But it was quiet. And going on far too long. 'Scott,' her voice was harsh, 'is she ok to be moved?' So, fine, she'd be the bitch. Someone had to.

She risked a glance over her shoulder, saw Scott was running hands over Jean, more slowly, deliberately than…from the corner of her eyes a flash, and she straightened, found Wolverine a step closer. 'NO!' she tapped his chest swiftly, and, surprisingly, he backed up, looking piteous, anxious, denied. How did she get in this position?

They needed to get out of here. 'Scott, what's the verdict? Can she be moved?'

'I think so, yes.' It was paler than usual for Scott, but he was pulling himself together.

'Carry her then,' and she heard the rustlings of what must have been that, and Logan's gaze began to dart around in concern, he gave a small whine, pressed against her palm, testing. 'I'm sorry,' she told him, and his eyes locked on hers, like an animal denied but trying to understand. She wished she could tell him better. 'I'm sorry. No,' firmly pushing him back.

Scott had gained his feet, and she angled slightly to see the door, see Scott, arms full of, tight on Jean. His gaze flicked from her to Logan, 'You two ok?'

'Yeah. Go straight to the jet,' she ordered. And she didn't care how it looked, the picture of her jealousy guarding Wolverine. He hadn't been there, hadn't seen when the claws came out. And she didn't feel like dying just because Jean was alive.

The other ramifications of Jean being alive…well, she'd decide how to deal with that later.

She let the silence swallow up Scott's retreating footsteps, took a moment to firm her resolve. Wolverine.

'Look at me,' she gestured firmly. 'Look at me. You're following me, understand? You're following me.' Keen and intense his gaze; she thought maybe he did.

'Follow me.' Tapped his chest and turned her back. No snikt, that was good, and he was right behind her, too. Checked her watch—they had, like, three minutes.

How had that been only seven minutes long? Felt like a lifetime.

Quick tug on him, she sprinted up the stairs, snapping into mission mode. The documents, the prisoners. Had to get out. Three minutes.

The document room looked like ordered chaos, Storm leading the troops, Kitty at the computers, Remy destroying the last of the surveillance videos, the confused throws of a last mad dash.

'What can I do?' Clasping Wolverine by the arm; but he seemed fairly obedient now, his confusion almost centering him. She was in charge.

'One last load to the van,' Storm ordered, a little harassed, and Rogue was able to load up a file cabinet, thrust a few paper boxes in Logan's arms, and then dash out the door, Logan and Storm and Remy right behind her.

Jubilee at the van, Bobby running over from the Blackbird some yards away. Rogue dumped her load, grasped and shoved in Logan's, as Jubilee arranged to make more room inside. 'They'll never make it,' she worried to Storm. And they wouldn't—not with only a ten-minute head start. Storm nodded, and a terse discussion sprang up, with the low glow of the van's interior light spilling out over them. Jubes 'n Bobby couldn't make it, but Storm might. Remy going with her. Placating Bobby: 'Someone has to fly the jet.' Checking up on them with Cerebro, and two last prisoners still inside.

Decided, and Rogue had nearly forgotten about Wolverine, until she was shoved, thrown forward several steps, and over her shoulder, she found him, stalking past. He'd nudged her belligerently, seeking, what—attention?

'NO!' Unacceptable, and she rapped his knuckles sharply, probably wouldn't have if she'd given it half a thought at all. But Wolverine growled, retreated sulkily. God, what the fuck was wrong with him?

She'd attracted the attention of everyone; Storm in particular had on a very arrested expression. 'Will you be alright?'

She had no idea. She wasn't looking forward to the plane ride. 'Go.' And she hated Jean suddenly; she got to hate a living person.

Storm went, and the tail lights cast a dim red on the circle of X-men in front of her, Jubilee and Bobby and Kitty, Logan sulking a few yards away, all turned to her.

Why was everyone looking at her suddenly? Why was everyone so stupid suddenly? 'Come on, the last two prisoners; I want outta here.' She did, she was really, really tired.

The pallets—she sent Bobby back for the pallets, have Scott prepare, and grasping Logan, Kitty leading them to the prisoners inside. A row of cells, the two prisoners had been moved on their cots to the hallway in front, and Rogue spied the fallen guards in one cell, all piled on top of one another, knocked out and locked in. Well, good. A pity they wouldn't be there longer.

'The pallets,' and taking one from Bobby, poking and prodding Wolverine until he did as she wanted, unrolling them, loading the prisoners, thin but not dying, bent but not broken. All of them drugged. 'Kitty, one last look around. And grab some documents, just in case the van doesn't make it.' She hefted up her end, surprisingly Wolverine hefted up his, too, his eyes on hers, seeking approval. She nodded, left Jubes and Bobby to get the last prisoner. Fourteen minutes. Fuck.

A bumbling jog. Her guy was getting bounced, and she felt badly about that, but she thought he'd probably feel worse if he was, you know, caught in the crossfire. Or left behind. Clambering aboard the jet, and Wolverine was concentrating now, actually looked so much more normal. She hoped it'd last.

'Scott, where?' And Scott was guiding them, a few adjustments on the jet allowing them to stack the prisoners on their pallets to save space. Jean, in fact, was on the pallet below. She eyed Logan fiercely, but he was quick to follow orders from her, exhibiting a much greater understanding, sliding the pallet in place.

A shout from outside, Bobby, calling for help, and Logan's eyes snapped to hers—brown this time. What, danger did that? Whatever. Sprinting out after him into the dark to see—two figures, closing in on Jubes and Kitty hauling in their last prisoner, Bobby turned to face them. 'Bobby, get the fuck on the jet and start it up!' And she and Logan turned to face them. She caught only one small glimpse of him in the moon glow to see that he was, indeed, Logan, again, and then—they were on them.

Christ, what a fucked up mission.

It became clear why these two weren't carrying long-range weapons: they were mutants, although why they were covering this base was anyone's guess. But Rogue, after grappling with her opponent for a futile minute, dodging some big motherfucking claws and only nearly sidestepping a plume of flame from this guy's mouth, just decided to use her skin. This was taking too long, so fucking close to leaving; and this guy just slashed her thigh right open. Fucking hell; she was swearing a lot lately. 'Rogue,' she heard Logan yell, like she needed him to tell her that her fucking thigh was ripped open. Thanks so much, she could feel all on her own.

She found flesh, felt the pull. Shit, shoulda thought his through. He was fucking psychotic—a 'Dragon', come on, dude—grey vision—how did this guy see?—and acute smelling, and…she breathed out a fire in a long plume in front of her. Can't say she hadn't seen that coming, too. She closed her eyes, couldn't feel where they were still touching, almost desperately clamped down on her skin—off, OFF. Pfew, heard him fall, and sighed in relief. In fire. A mangled growl, shit, couldn't see but that might've been Logan. A part of her really wished she could've seen that. So long as he wasn't too hurt, anyway.

'Can't see,' she called out in panic, turning her head as the flames sprayed. Shit. 'Which way?' cursing herself when the flame happened again, and her suit must be singed now. Nice plastic-and-leather-char smell.

'You gotta stop doing that, darlin',' she heard Logan from behind her this time, and thank God, thank God, he was back. 'You're bloody dangerous.' She nodded obediently, his hands on her wrists. 'So, you're blind, huh?' She nodded again…not exactly true, but she could only see hazy moving shapes, and she wasn't sure where she was. 'Grab onta me. And keep your mouth shut and breathing even.' She did so, and found herself following Logan's easy sprint onto the jet, again, heard him give the command to go, and seated her, facing, she hoped, nothing that couldn't get singed.

She was opening her eyes wide and blinking at everything, see nothing in here. Thigh really starting to hurt now. She began to sigh, felt a bit of burn, and stopped immediately. Damn, no getting out of this. And this freak in her head was getting more insistent and more alive, murmurs and memories of insane things about women in general, mutants and virgins. A complete psycho, as well as a mutant? She concentrated hard on trying to pushing the images, the emotions out of her head, when she heard a murmur to the far right…Logan, quietly asking, 'She alright?' Nothing else, and well…it's Logan again. She had to be grateful for that.

Fuck, 'cause after all this, she might just cry. But she wouldn't. She leaned tensely up against the wall.

Then suddenly there it was, Logan's smell, strong, slightly singed, a little bloody, and his hands on her legs. She tensed immediately, and the dragon's feelings in her were strong and insistent, too, immediately hostile. There was the casual probing of her thigh, and she felt hot fire, and tears, acceptable tears, and the dragon's emotions again, stronger, seeking vengeance… her teeth bared, and she heard Logan, 'Woah, darling. Put those away. Careful.' And his voice didn't sound like he was joking, but like he might be dead-serious, and she wished she could see that expression of horror for when it might be funny later. But small jet, she made a conscious effort, lips and teeth firmly together. Christ, the dragon in her head, but Logan wasn't done yet. He was touching her all over, and smoothing her clenched fists in his hand.

'Darlin,' and she couldn't do this right now. She just couldn't. It was a struggle to remain conscious. Conscious and still. And even breathing. Damn. 'Darlin,' he sounded more insistent now. 'Turn your skin on.' She shook her head vigorously. Too hard to control it right now- she couldn't take more. 'Turn you skin on. Your leg, darlin'. Let me heal it.' She grit her teeth, screwed up her eyes, braced hard against the wall. 'Darlin,' he was saying softly now. 'It's bad. The gash on your leg. It's bad. Bleeding a lot. We need to heal it. Come on.' But she couldn't, shook her head again.

Logan, concerned voice, was ordering someone to get him the med kit, and he was bandaging her leg at once. She tried to force the dragon out of her headspace while he did it, because his reaction was to shove him away, get out of this damn aircraft, and slouch away. And hers—well, she'd never been a big fan of pain. And exactly how long did it take to dress—fuck…she focused on stiff and unresponsive, suffered the bandaging.

She remembered little about what happened when they arrived back on base. She remembered she tried to refuse to go to the med lab: she didn't want to burn everything up, and the voices and jostling of people around her were uncomfortable for her, what with the dragon's hatred for every living thing. But she found herself unable to resist the impetus; and her effort was costing her. She still couldn't see, she was disoriented, and very thirsty, her leg ached like a son-of-a-bitch, and that was when she wasn't moving it. All in all, a terribly shitty day, not least of which was that she didn't know what would happen when she woke up and Jean Grey was up and the whole Logan, Jean, Scott, Rogue happy-happy love fest could begin in earnest.


	2. Waking Up

**II: WAKING UP**

Her control only lasted until she collapsed. She normally couldn't control it at all after she touched, not for several hours-to-days. Touching drained her of the power, but she guessed that the adrenalin, the fear, the flight, had allowed her a temporary period of reprieve. But when she woke from the med lab, vision still slightly Grey, mouth completely dry, she could feel her skin humming, hypersensitive, as if over-used, and she knew it was on.

And, like always, her control was too fragile. She could feel her mind fumbling to turn it off, felt it flicker a time or two, but…she couldn't sustain it. Exhausted, she dropped all pretense, and turned her eyes around her.

She could feel the quiet beeps of the med lab, the overly bright walls. She would have groaned, but she wasn't sure of vocalizations yet, but she did try to sit up, felt the insistent pain in her thigh this time, and knew Logan hadn't healed her. She was relieved – the last thing she needed right now was Logan, with all his opinions and feelings about them, about Jean, about the battle, in her head right now. Fucking dragon was more than enough.

Her rustling alerted Hank. He stood and offered her a drink. 'Feeling better?' he queried. She shook her head, and gratefully reached for the water, careful to avoid brushing his fingers. She would have gulped it down, but stopped abruptly, a quizzical eyebrow raised at Hank before she could open her mouth.

'You should find you'll be able to drink,' he answered. 'You can speak and that, too,' he gestured. 'Just not when you're enraged or…,' he quirked a smile to the pitcher of water, 'dehydrated.'

She gulped it down, and cautiously smiled. 'Weird gift,' she whispered, pleased when she didn't spray fire across the med lab. 'Glad it's not mine.'

'I'm sure,' grinned the doctor. He turned away to turn to the phone system. 'I'm to call Logan now. He wanted to know when you awoke, so he could heal you. I wouldn't allow it when you were unconscious, but he wanted to know the moment you awoke.'

'No,' she struggled to sit up and assert herself. 'No. Don't call him.' But Hank smiled in a perfunctory way, 'I'm leaving this completely between the two of you. I make it my business not to interfere in the idiocy of two patients.' He grinned wryly, turning to the house phone and speaking quietly and concisely in hushed tones over the end.

Rogue gave him a grim smile, decided to prepare for the worst. Logan would probably be down soon. She should get dressed, brush her hair, try to protect herself from as much as possible. Speaking of… 'How's Jean?' and she was proud that her concern, and not her anxiety, came out prominently in her inflection.

Hank turned round. 'She's…' he paused. 'She's conscious. She's eaten…breakfast this morning. Physically, she's in better shape than you.' He paused, and she looked at him expectantly. 'Mentally, well, we don't know what happened to her. We don't know her history. We do know that she's holding up rather well…she's rather….docile right now. Scott's caring for her, and we're all just trying to give her some space.'

Rogue nodded. It was better than she'd hoped. And she was glad. She was. But she realized with a frown, that the repercussions of Jean's discovery might not be felt for months…until she was able to function, until she was able to choose. And Logan and Scott, they'd all have to. Because—despite the mission and her uncertainty and how much she was trying to avoid thinking about it right now—she didn't think Logan would…he was honorable. And maybe confused. No, she didn't think any of this would be settled soon.

So not merely days, but weeks, months of not knowing The knowledge wasn't so disconcerting; it was the best possible scenario, all things considered. But that not-knowing left Rogue unable to decide how she was going to handle herself in the meantime. Was she supposed to let it slide, let it happen how it happened? How was she supposed to act towards Jean, towards Scott, towards Logan?

Well, you couldn't hold on to the Wolverine. Actually, she'd like to see someone try, and chuckled darkly at the image. A sense of humor would be crucial, she felt. Pity she no longer had one. Fuck it. In the absence of humor, cursing might help.

She could still feel the Dragon in her head, but his powers were fading… fast, now. She figured she wouldn't be able to access them later tonight, but she was far from feeling up-to-par, and her crankiness meter went up a notch.

Really, this was all Logan's fault. He let her absorb that Dragon-guy. He was all ambivalent about his feelings. He wanted to heal her. He wasn't here to argue with…

Until he was, striding into the room, just as she was gingerly rising from the bed.

He was also all business. 'Okay, darlin', come here,' and he was busy repositioning himself and her so that he could fall into bed after their brief touch, without pinning her in the process.

'No!' she pulled back quickly, disliking his heavy-handedness at this moment, and also, tangentially grateful that she was so well-covered in the med lab. Though, upon further consideration, just good practical sense on the part of Dr. Hank.

'Marie?' he paused, genuinely confused. 'Come on, c'mere. It'll just take a second, heal that leg right up.' His hands gentled, but were just as authoritarian.

She was more firm this time, less childish. 'No, Logan.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Marie,' her name was a warning. 'Stop now. I'm not gonna hurt you, and I'm not gonna die. It'll just take a little bit, and you're fine. Now _come here_.' He pressed her closer, his eyes determined.

'Logan,' and she looked him straight in the eye. 'Stop.' And thank heavens he did, staring her eye-to-eye and keeping his grip on her tight, and she worried about the tension in him, if he would just touch her anyway, her shields too weak to stop him.

He glared at her, sizing her up, and she waited to see what he would do.

'Why?' he asked, and she was a little surprised he was letting her get this far without railroading her. Or giving up in exasperation.

She took a bracing breath. 'It's not life-threatening. It's not necessary—'

'We've done this before,' he asserted, and his eyes now were searching.

'We agreed,' she began shakily.

'No, you agreed,' he corrected, giving her a bit of a shake. 'I told ya, I'd heal you from every nick and bruise if you wanted, but this…' he gestured to her heavily bandaged leg, 'doesn't fall into the minor category. This is major. This is a week of bed rest and weeks of rehabilitation.'

'Logan,' she pleaded.

'So, why?' he asked, voice higher now.

'I can't. I just…' her throat clogged, and she swallowed it back. 'I'm struggling with…with up here right now,' she gestured to her head, 'and…well, I just can't handle any more in my head just yet.' She felt him slump a little beside her and felt immediately guilty that she'd reminded him. She knew how touchy he was on the topic of the nightmares he'd given her. And it wasn't even the nightmares she feared from him.

But she'd underestimated him again. He pulled her in closer to his body, tucking her head firmly beneath his chin, and just rocked her. She let out a breath and accepted the comfort. She had him for now. She had him for now. And maybe, when the dust settled, and everyone figured out how everyone else felt about Jean's return, then maybe she'd have him then, too. As a friend, at least. God, this could get so ugly. She was weary just thinking about it.

The circles he was drawing on her back felt very good. She hummed a little under his touch, and she stroked his forearm through his shirt. 'I need to get my gloves,' she murmured. 'And a shower,' she added, her nose twitching.

Logan barked out a laugh, as she'd intended, and she turned to give him a thank-you smile. 'You smell good to me, baby,' he smirked. Sweet but impossible.

'You have lines for everything, Logan,' she teased tiredly. She got up from his lap, more awkwardly than she would have liked with the leg, and Logan was sweetly supportive about being her crutch out of the med lab and to their room. But he did ask, when she collapsed rather gratefully onto the bed, whether she'd let him heal her in a few days or a week's time.

She looked up, and his eyes were so worried and caring that she almost couldn't speak, but she answered, 'We'll see. Okay, Logan? We'll see.' And he nodded and didn't blame her or wash his hands of her or berate her for being a damn-fool or anything else. She knew she should feel guilty about that, but right then, she just couldn't feel anything but acute relief.

She couldn't sleep. She couldn't sleep with Logan right there, with her skin on.

She'd start to relax, reach that stage where she thought to herself 'I'm asleep,' then the tacked-on 'be careful!' woke her, every time. Or she'd doze off—jerk awake, find herself flicking compulsively, anxiously, trying to switch it off in sleep. Or, she'd have nightmares, almost out of some B Hollywood movie, that someone was skulking in the shadows (the whole hat and trench coat thing), stalking her, reaching out to touch her slowly, inevitably. She only wished it was as corny as it sounded.

And her leg ached and her skin hummed, and Logan wouldn't let her go during the night.

He was trying to be supportive. He surfaced from sleep when she jerked, squeezed tighter, soothed groggily, 'It's alright, darlin'. It's safe. I gotcha. It's safe.' Then he'd fall back asleep effortlessly, without knowing that it wasn't alright, that his having her did not make things better, safer. And she resented him, more than a little for that, much more than he deserved.

She was able to sleep better during the day, when Logan wasn't next to her, and she could almost go back in her mind to a time when she slept alone, had skin she couldn't normally control. She had strange dreams then, but she slept.

But Logan didn't like that, got his concerned, chastising expression on. He informed her that she needed to think of her leg, get used to it, get back on a 'schedule'. 'You sleep at night with me, like normal, darlin',' he decreed, straightening her clothes, brushing back her hair, and she repressed a desire to toss her head, reject his touch. 'The rest will be alright.'

So she was bored and sleep-deprived and trying desperately not to be cranky, not to be tetchy, not to be emotional. And she was trying not to think about turning it off. All the time. Especially since it normally would've. But, gradually, it was sorta working.

The first few days Logan had to teach, had duties, and it was a relief when he was out of their room. She nursed her leg, and he nursed her, and they had no conversation, too little to do. She was bored. He hovered. They were both trying very hard to be nice; neither was nice, so the effort cracked through.

But the weekend came, and it was clear that couldn't work. Logan was itching to go somewhere (Rogue suspected anywhere); but he wanted her to go, too. And though she tried to reassure him, tried to send him away, he was firm, and he was adamant, and he was carrying her because at the very least they were leaving this fucking room, getting some goddamn lunch, and did she have a problem with that?

And it was hard to accept his help, washing her hair and easing on shoes, after that.

Her leg wasn't really that bad. She was a little ashamed of how much she was letting herself take advantage of it. Because she could walk kind of, and she could sit, definitely; she didn't need the bed.

But she really didn't want to venture out into the school, find out what the mission had wrought. She didn't want to put her gloves on and cover up and worry again. And she didn't want to face whatever-was-happening with Jean.

Well, acknowledging you have a problem—the first step.

And so she clasped her arms around Logan's neck in what she hoped was grace but was probably resignation, and she allowed herself to be carried to the cafeteria without further argument. Because hey, acknowledgment to one's self was one thing, but she couldn't very well admit to Logan that she could probably lurch to the cafeteria herself, not when she'd been using it as an excuse all week. Besides, this was faster.

Logan deposited her in a fairly obscure corner of the cafeteria, for which she was grateful, and, in front of these others, was solicitous and inquiring and wondering what she wanted to eat. And Rogue answered mechanically and tried to look appreciative, and he took her order with a bit of a bow (a bow—really Logan?) and left.

There weren't that many students in the cafeteria, it being a weekend and off-hours, but after being carried, finally emerging, she was the center of attention, and she waved defiantly to the room, her gloves striking, blaring—back off. Oh, well, she had done this; she could do this.

Scott and Jean, on the other side of the cafeteria, were just leaving as she arrived, and with a lingering feeling of discomfort, she gleaned as much information from that brief look as she could. Jean looked pretty healthy, thin; not strong so much as capable, upright, in manner almost…regal. So much better than Rogue would have expected. And Scott trailed after her, solicitous, anxious, perhaps a bit too close. Scott spied Rogue for a short second as he stood, holding the door open for Jean—time for a short nod, small wave in return. Rogue frowned a little, strange, the role reversal already, but she could speculate all day and still not know what it meant.

Mind her own business, as she hoped other people would mind theirs, and belatedly she hoped that it hadn't been noted, that Jean hadn't been offended, this past week that she hadn't welcomed her back; although it didn't really matter whether Jean had. She'd behaved badly—to everyone, really. Especially Logan.

She was disinclined for conversation when he returned with their food.

They ate in dogged silence, focusing on the meal to keep from having to do anything more. Rogue studied the other students, who, despite the novelty of her appearance, were no longer studying them. Yup, they must look as interesting as they felt.

She pleaded tiredness when she was done, claimed she wanted a nap, he should leave her for the afternoon, and he stood abruptly, clapped their trays together and took them to the counter.

'You have to stop,' he told her brusquely on his return, leaning in to pick her up again: she was elevated and swinging in his arms before she was prepared. 'No more hiding.' And she was suddenly blinking back tears fiercely and turned away, and only hiding now because she hadn't been expecting it, so strong, so soon.

So, yes, yes, she was and did have to stop. She just resented being told.

'Ok. I'll try,' she conceded softly, as he set her down gently on the bed, arranged the blankets around her bad leg.

'Good.' He stood, leaning over her, hands splayed at his waist, and she knew she would really have to. She needed to, anyway. 'Sleep,' he commanded. 'I'll go out.' And she sighed and rolled over, to not sleep, to not go out, but to think of how she'd have to now.

Dressed and showered every morning. Eating in the cafeteria two meals a day. She was getting out, and Logan accepted that. And on Monday, when Logan went back to teaching, she made her way downstairs under her own power around midmorning, and it was then she found Jean.

She had pulled herself into the kitchenette, exhausted, aching, and after a few minutes of panting, she'd gotten herself a banana (all she could reach from her seat). She had just taken a tired bite, when Jean strode by, started and stopped, 'Rogue,' she'd said in warm, pleased surprise. Rogue mimed hello, swallowed a chunk, grunted out a real greeting.

'How's the leg?' Jean queried, peering down.

Rogue shrugged, shifted the ache out into a more comfortable position. 'Getting there.'

And Jean smiled in real pleasure, and began to busy herself making tea, and Rogue realized that they would have to talk about something real, that they probably should.

Still, she didn't want to come right out with the 'Glad you're no longer being tortured' talk; so…food? Not, she realized, back-pedaling, recent diets, but food here. Now. This particular food. Never good food, enough food, convenient food. Student-run kitchens, messiness, the problems inherent with public ownership. They each nodded wisely, desultorily. Rogue made to throw away her banana peel. Possibly leave, if she could manage it.

Then Jean seemed to decide to ask. With an air of detached curiosity peculiar in the situation, she brought up Rogue's membership as an X-men.

'I was a recruit two years ago,' Rogue swallowed, her eyes following Jean's movements as the tea was made. 'Then last year, an X-man. I know I don't have any offensive gifts, really. But Logan—uh, I was taught how to fight, and I could strategize, research…I could always kill. Ya know.' She shrugged, tried to explain how it had been. 'I think it was just, the number of missions grew, and they needed more trained people, and I was here…' she shrugged again.

She really didn't understand how she'd made it on the team over some others with more aggressive powers, but she supposed it was temperament, more than ability, that had made her a part of the team. And ultimately, she acknowledged, her relationship with Logan.

'You seemed very comfortable as part of the team,' Jean observed, surprising Rogue, because in tone it was so much like the oldknowing Jean, and surely she shouldn't be that still…or yet. And it was making her feel about three years old.

'Yeah,' she agreed quietly. 'I am.' You got that way fast when you trained as hard as they did, when you risked lives with people.

Jean smiled a bit, in that calm way of hers. 'You're good at being in charge,' she complimented smoothly, blowing on her tea and taking a careful sip.

Rogue frowned, wondering what Jean could possibly be basing that on, surely nothing she'd observed, certainly wasn't true lately. But she murmured her thanks anyway, tried to return it.

'So were y—are…you,' she fumbled her way into an intensely awkward pause. OH GOD. The pause had to be better than any words she said now. But Oh God, good God, Good Lord God…

'So you're with Logan now.' Was that any better than the awkward pause? But Jean, from what Rogue saw in glancing up, wasn't patronizing or jealous or surprised, just… wondering.

No hiding it, anyway. 'Yeah. It just kind of happened,' Rogue admitted, and that was precisely how it felt to her. After Jean, Scott left, she was there, and Logan had…yeah, it had just happened. And when Scott had returned, she'd known that Logan meant it. At least in the Jean-was-dead-Rogue-isn't kind of way. She'd been willing to go with it, had been pretty certain of it—until now.

Jean looked at her, slightly puzzled, a bit of concern in her eyes, and Rogue smiled in a way that was intended to reassure, though it grew a little nervous in the thickening silence. She really didn't want to go into it with Jean. She could understand why Jean might, but she really didn't want to go into it with Jean.

Jean must have seen that, because she let it drop, with a small smile, and saying, pretty sincerely, 'Oh. Well, that's nice.' Rogue murmured something even she couldn't recognize in response.

Jean glanced down, almost shyly, then, and excused herself in a low voice, made to walk off with her mug, and Rogue felt she couldn't leave it at that. 'Jean,' she called out over-loudly, spiking off the stool disjointedly.

Jean's shoulder hunched a bit, but she half-turned, a carefully open expression on her face. Rogue settled for a full confession, what she had wanted to say since…since she'd identified Jean in the lab. 'I just—you're probably hearing this from everybody, but—we missed you. I missed you. A lot. And I'm just so glad…' There was no good way to end that sentence, so she didn't even try.

Jean swallowed, and her face tightened, but she nodded, waved, and walked away. And Rogue hoped it had been alright to mention that.

She spent her days in the library, scoped out a little corner for herself by the fire, and found she quite liked to have life kind of…occur around her.

Students would drop in, over study hall, during lunch. It was rarely empty. And she enjoyed observing them, lazily eavesdropping, desultorily conversing. She caught up on the rumor mill around the school.

The students were a little wary of her, her skin. They'd never known her when she couldn't control it, and after all previous touches (a few missions, one danger room injury-healing session), she'd gained control much more quickly. So, they were understandably skittish around her, somehow less comfortable with her covered up, as though reminded. She found it morbidly comic that when she stretched out a gloved hand, they leaned away.

They got over it, partially at any rate, got used to her presence, too. And the girls would gab in front of her, and students would seek her advice about Scott or Logan as a teacher (never Storm or Hank), flip out the homework for an informal tutoring session. And she shrugged carelessly, chuckled in a detached manner at how it made her suddenly 'cool'.

She was slacking off and more popular than ever.

It wasn't so bad, the library; she was learning all kinds of things. That Scott followed Jean everywhere (the cutest thing!), but that Xavier (cagey man) wouldn't excuse him from his classes, and that Logan was helping Scott anyway, taking the senior gym class again. That Melody overheard Xavier tell Storm that Jean might be even more powerful than she'd been before, but no one knew for sure. That Remy (super hot) was always in the danger room now, and that though a flirt, he totally had the hots for Ororo.

Oh, and that Amy Sullivan had totally dissed Andy Reidman and was absolutely not going steady with him, even if she did give him tongue in the locker room.

When Logan found her there the first day, he'd been quietly pleased, and he'd even brought her dinner to her in there. He was less pleased the next day and the next, but he didn't push. He thought it a step up from their room, evidently.

He started sending people in to her for small chats throughout the day. Jubilee, Kitty, Bobby, even Scott. She had to laugh at that one, because look at how far they'd come! And it was very transparent, this attempt to make her 'normal' again, which by some twisted logic, didn't allow her to talk about anything 'real'.

Jubilee in particular must have been warned, because she danced around topics with all the panache of a wrangler. At one point, they were actually discussing the weather: Catskills vs. Urals. Since neither of them had actually been to the Urals, or Asia or Europe for that matter, it wasn't a very informed discussion. But they did make a bet over it, which only an encyclopedia could settle.

It was a shade darker than boring.

Every day, she woke with a groan, from the throb in her leg, and then puffed in irritation, from her sweaty, gloved hands. She'd try to turn it off, and she couldn't. And then he'd eye her at that precise moment of irritation, frustration—cocked head, sweet and worried expression—and he'd ask about her leg, with that little glance that said, 'I'll heal it, just ask me.' And she'd answer, 'It's getting better,' more or less tightly. And he'd smile and kiss her hair and let it go.


	3. Getting to Know Jean

**III: GETTING TO KNOW JEAN**

By the next weekend, she thought Logan was displeased with her but trying to hide it. And in a dark way, that pleased her.

She was sick, obviously.

He wanted her to eat in the cafeteria with him again—insisted, actually—even though she'd eaten in the cafeteria during the week, too, and it wasn't such a production as this. She limped down the hallway, pawing the wall, and put up with his hovering arms just behind her, ready to catch her if she stumbled.

Honestly, how did he think she got to the library in the morning? She now really regretted telling him about that time she'd slipped and fallen. It had been a funny story, damn it!

Her leg was better, healing, but she was aching as she arrived in the cafeteria, ready to sit down. Logan motioned her to a seat, and she was tired and out of sorts already as she saw that Scott and Jean were at their table, too, terrific.

Her leg gave her the excuse to pull herself together for a moment, and she saw Logan and Scott exchange significant looks, pissed her off. Whatever, she was going to be pleasant, so she plastered on a smile, waited a minute. This would have been so much easier with props, but she needed—wince—a little more time before she went up to fetch her food.

Logan was hovering, and she jerked when he bent over to peer into her face. And it was peering—she could see his eyelashes, pores, flecks in his eyes. 'Your leg is hurting,' he intoned, and she wanted to say, 'No shit, Sherlock,' because it always was. But Scott and Jean were observing them interestedly, and Logan was already whirling away, clapping Scott on the shoulder roughly and prying him off his seat, propping and padding her leg up there, over her embarrassed protestations.

Well…sweetly inappropriate, she guessed, and she tried to be grateful to him, apologetic to them, all at the same time. She was pretty sure that wasn't a success. There was another awkward pause, and Logan shifted, studying her red face again. 'I'll get you a plate, okay?' And she just nodded, 'Anything, thanks.' Anything to get him gone. And Logan left abruptly, and Scott murmured something and followed. And how times had changed when those two were confidantes.

Good Lord, this was too much. She was going to have to say something. She and Logan would end up killing each other, at least one of them would die; she would see to it. And she shook her head, watched in detachment as Scott and Logan got in line, cocked a little towards each other, shoulders a little slumped.

'Bet you as much as you like they're talking about us,' Jean commented in bemusement.

Rogue swallowed, because, yes, she was now seated with only Jean. And they were talking about Logan, who wasn't really talking to her. And she had nothing to say. 'Seems only fair,' she answered evenly. 'We're talking about them.'

Jean teased with a small grin, 'Yeah. Could Logan have been any more determined to get a chair for that leg?'

Rogue huffed out a laugh. 'He's been…hovering a little.'

Jean sighed, one of those long, musical, tired ones. 'Yeah, Scott's been that way, too. They're worried about us.'

Rogue rubbed her brow, twitched nervously. 'I guess.'

There was a pause, then Jean nudged her. 'Logan's worried about your skin not turning off, that you're not interested in your leg's recovery, from what I hear.'

Rogue darted an uncomfortable glance over at Jean, but she was eyeing the pair a little sadly as they paused, conferred over the sidedishes. 'He doesn't talk to me about you,' Rogue admitted, a little tightly. 'Sorry.'

Jean hummed a little in response, drew a little with some water on the table. 'Oh, I expect Scott's worry is the same as that of the entire school.' She smiled a little bitterly. 'When will Jean show it, when will she be crazy, break down?' She gazed round the cafeteria, brilliant, glittering smile, and a few students at other tables nodded shyly back; someone was always looking at Jean now. 'Or when will she be normal again?'

And Rogue saw the carefully controlled smile, the deliberate way her hands were folded, the cracks in the Jean-is-normal facade. And she could hear in Jean's words how Jean wondered, too, how this recovery would go, how it would be. She darted a quick glance at Scott's back, his reedy, anxious posture. No, he probably wasn't helping things.

Well, she hadn't been there, but she could relate. 'And hovering is such a cure for that, ya know,' Rogue observed dead-pan. 'Just knowing they're around to pounce, at the first sign. It's so encouraging.'

Jean turned to her in real amusement, a surprised smile blossoming. 'Absolutely,' she chuckled heartily, and hope blossomed, too, that lunch wouldn't be too bad. But then, Jean was ducking her head a bit, mumbling, 'Look now, they're coming back.' And strangely, Jean grew sober, silent, almost dulcet as the two approached.

So lunch was stilted, stultifying, other st-words. And for people caught in a love triangle-square whatever, Rogue brooded blackly about how UST-free it all was. Say that for being injured, almost crazy.

That wasn't to say there wasn't tension. Logan cut up her steak for her, because…an injured leg meant your arms no longer worked? And Scott kept checking, every few minutes, to see if Jean was settled, a hand against her seat back, her thigh…maybe he was reassuring himself. Sighs and darted glances and harrumphs, too. Jean was good at ignoring it all, but Rogue could feel herself growing tense, picking with her food, biting her cheek raw and sticking doggedly to her plate to keep from responding.

The highlight of the dinner came at the end, as Rogue realized that Logan expected her to finish every bite, and she'd rolled her eyes and shoveled in the last few with less grace than she'd started. Jean reached forward, snagged her dessert.

'Sorry, it just looks so good, I'm going to steal it,' she confessed, digging in, ignoring Scott's low demur. Jean looked around at their faces—Rogue didn't mind, but the other two looked a little uncomfortable—cocked her head, and her tone was a bit hard, 'I think prison entitles me to pie, don't you?'

There was complete and utter silence, broken only by the clatter of Jean's fork on crockery, and Rogue exchanged glances with the other two to guess how to take this: they didn't know either. But when Jean held a bite aloft, there was that tiny smile at the corners, that sparkle in her eyes, and…she was fucking with them.

'After all,' Jean pointed to Rogue with her fork, eyes narrowed a bit, 'You were evidently too slow to dodge someone's claw.' She took the bite, licked her lips like the cat that got the cream. 'I'm doing you a favor.'

And Rogue couldn't help laughing in the baffled silence, at Scott's acute embarrassment, at Logan's slightly offended expression. At Jean's self-congratulatory preening, now, as she munched and eyed the two pole-axed men.

'Hey, can I have a napkin, please?' Jean asked, leaning in to make a grab for it, grinning sidelong at Rogue.

'Woah, there!' Rogue held up a gloved hand. 'Careful. Don't need your memories, thank you very much.' And they grinned cheekily, and Jean smacked her lips and licked off her fork. And they both enjoyed how ill-at-ease and unprepared the men looked.

'No sense of humor,' Rogue explained apologetically, and Logan, strange to say, had pushed back, was gazing at her with the nearest thing to a smile on his face, not like he enjoyed the joke or even understood it, but like he was willing to accept that she had.

Scott just looked anxious, bewildered. 'God, Scott, you're worse than Logan,' Rogue chuckled weakly, because—who could be worse than Logan?—and threw a napkin across the table at him. She and Jean sniggered idiotically as Scott brushed it away a little stiffly, enjoyed the aggrieved look he cast them, Logan's commiserating glance in response.

But... 'Better move,' Rogue announced, rubbing her leg a little, and Logan was all attention and rising now, and Rogue was able to shoot off a last real wave at Jean, a 'pleasant lunch' for a goodbye.

And as she hobbled away, she hoped she'd run into Jean again. Because she could use a bit more black humor, a bit more of a break, an opportunity to feel like she wouldn't kill Logan.

Because he was hovering again. Only this time, she told him that she would prefer to fall on her ass than have him right behind her. 'And if I do fall,' she twisted round sharply, hopping a bit uncomfortably to look at him. 'You have my permission to laugh.'

He was arrested in space, hands still outstretched, but they dropped after a moment, he backed up, studying her. 'Ok.'

She sighed. 'Laugh, Logan. It was a joke.' She poked him.

Small smile, agreeable nod. 'Ok.'

She eyed him suspiciously, 'til she was sure it took. 'Ok.' And he tread patiently beside her, threw her cute little glances and smiles on the way back. Maybe she wouldn't have to kill him, after all.

She didn't have to kill him; which was just as well, because Logan grew so busy, preoccupied that he might not have noticed. He dropped the solicitude like it was a relief, left Rogue to her own devices. And it was a relief. She just wished, hoped…well, she hoped he was ok.

They weren't talking. Looking back, they'd never been big talkers, which surprised her. Because the conversations she remembered, the words in her memory that echoed back, were always his. And she knew that she could chat for hours. Just, evidently, not with him.

He seemed able to talk to others, too. He was confiding in Hank about her skin, so she was buttonholed with the Beast for about two hours, explaining that her skin was fine, and no, she didn't think there was anything weird about the dragon this time. No, she didn't know of anything Hank could do.

He confided in Scott, of course, resulting in transparent, leading, one-sided discussions with her at lunchtime. So her skin wouldn't turn off, huh? How was getting around on that leg? The sad thing was that at one time she'd actually enjoyed talking to Scott.

Rogue even heard from Kitty (shortly before she left to go back to college) about how excited (?) Logan was about this opportunity to expose the labs. 'Giddy like a schoolboy, sometimes,' Kitty ragged. 'The bad ass Wolverine. Hilarious, don't you think?'

Rogue nodded, but she didn't think, couldn't imagine it. And it hurt, especially since it was her fault she didn't know, and she tried not to think that her leg, some type of misplaced guilt, was the only reason he was still there. Because it wasn't fair to start questioning him yet, and he had always been fair to her.

But she was tired of finding out everything second hand, third hand. She wanted to talk to him; she just didn't know what to say. So she stuck with generics, at first: tried, 'How was your day?', ashamed it was the first time in nearly two weeks she'd asked.

And he answered back with the same clichés, 'Fine', 'Good', 'Busy'.

So she got more specific. 'So I heard that the newspapers have picked up the lab story.'

'Yeah,' he breathed, changing into long sleeves, gloves, socks. She'd tried to cover up completely so he wouldn't have to, but…he was covering up anyway.

'You helping out on that?' she asked, propped up on an elbow in bed, watching.

He yanked up the bedclothes, heaved in, settled. 'Uh-huh.'

There was an almost leaden pause, as Logan blinked up at the ceiling and she played with the pillowcase. Had she always been this bad at this, or was this recent? 'So how's it going?'

He closed his eyes, sighed. 'It's fine,' he assured her in his most-patient tone, then rolled, as though it were an effort, over to embrace her awkwardly, smudge a kiss in her hair. He flopped back over to his side.

'Ok, then,' Rogue eased down. He could just be tired. 'Let me know if there's anything I can do.'

A gloved hand flapped over, patted her without looking. He draped an arm over his eyes, then, almost absently, 'How's your leg?'

Just as absently, 'Better.'

He grunted, shifted. Fell asleep. And that was that.

So she was BORED. Bored and not in the loop and, with her leg, without a job anymore, evidently. Because she wasn't getting a lot of support. No one seemed to care: that her skin was still on, her leg not healed, that she wasn't back to work. It made her wonder…shouldn't somebody, care that is, whether from jealousy, concern, expedience? Was this bizarre-o land, or just…What was going on?

She asked Xavier for a new project. He told her to rest up, heal, rehabilitate. She made the rounds of the recruits—what was going on, anyway?—but everyone had their own projects, waved her away.

Well, the X-men had a long history of not giving her enough work to do. Those who stayed made themselves indispensable. So, casting a thought back to the last mission, she guessed there were plenty of files and pages and leads about the Ohio facility that could be followed up on.

Where were they, anyway? Few sly questions, bit of sleuthing, she found the basement, and Jubilee with the documents.

'Hey, chica,' she was greeted, slight surprise, more fatigue. 'Welcome to the dungeon. Oh, wait, sorry—forgot about the dragon with you. How about, welcome to the graveyard? Too death-y?'

Rogue laughed, limped over, Jubilee gestured tiredly to a stack of papers several inches thick. 'Files from the facility; could use some help.'

Rogue picked up a stack, glanced over the contents, slight queasiness revealing her apprehension; she wasn't sure she was authorized, that she should presume, government facility, privacy, victims and whatnot. But on the other hand...

The documents were dry, impersonal, explicit:

'Subject 2317 appears telesympathetic, responding equally to electric shocks applied directly and indirectly (to another subject). Physical manifestations can be simulated to the point of cardiac arrest.'

'Warning: Telekinetic abilities may limit long-term viability of S2317 research. S2317 could disable electric shock devices by six months. S2317 can manipulate any familiar or visible device. (Restraints need to be outside the visual range at all times.)'

'Telekinetic acts could not be consistently induced by threat of torture, physical torture, or by holding food and water in sight but out of reach; S2317 will use abilities to prevent starvation of cellmates.'

'Telekinetic abilities in S2317 are impaired by physical torture, sleeplessness, and starvation. Telekinetic and telesympathetic abilities may be enhanced through social and physical isolation.'

And those were just the parts that caught her attention in the first flip through. She—Lord, Jean, poor Jean—how sick was she, and suddenly feeling very guilty for reading this, knowing this.

Jubilee was monitoring her, a dead expression on her face. 'Heh. Try redacting this lot.' She cocked her head. 'D'jya get to the part where they got her to use her powers by starving the others?' Rogue nodded, licked her lips. 'One of them ended up dying. Yeah, they put Jean in isolation for too long, nearly drove her nuts, and when they put her back, she blocked out everything, completely unresponsive. One of the other cell mates died of starvation, dehydration after seven days, and the scientists had to stop that experiment. After all, the others were mutant subjects, too. But they never got Jean to use her powers again.'

'Oh my God,' Rogue breathed, which felt so inadequate…but Christ.

'Yeah, that was about a year ago,' Jubilee returned, closing a file, sticking a pen in to mark the place. 'Light reading.' She gestured with a weary shrug to the stack-upon-stacks of boxes behind her. 'So, you say you want to help?'

So Rogue had lunch with Jubilee, a bit of a grim lunch. 'So that's why your conversation was so…' Rogue searched for a word.

Jubilee grinned a little, 'Yeah, sorry, chica. I didn't know what to say.'

'Understandable,' Rogue chuckled morbidly. She eyed the cafeteria. 'Who else has access? That needs to be limited. Really sensitive, personal information in there.'

Jubilee sighed. 'I know. I told Xavier, but he's making comments to the press about the facility from Ohio, got a manhunt for some wacko teen mutant in Arkansas. And breaking in his new recruit—she can't type, evidently.' Jubilee rolled her eyes. 'He's just busy. Tossed this in my lap; just wants the files for release, so they can be leaked while the story's still hot.'

Rogue leaned forward. 'Does Jean even know? That the files exist, that they plan to release that information?'

Jubilee hummed, motioned silence, eyeing someone walking past—Jean. They both hunched, silent and watchful, as Jean clipped by, seating herself with some freshmen at a table across the cafeteria. There was a chirrup of surprised greetings, and it looked like Jean was settling in for an impromptu little chat. Rogue might have dismissed it, except for the trace of brittleness there, the forced conversation. And the scowling, hunched Scott observing from the doorway. What the—?

'She does now,' Jubilee confirmed, sipping. 'Scott,' and she nodded significantly. 'He found me yesterday, insisted on reading her casefiles, so he would know what happened.'

'Oh, dear. Wrong move on so many different levels,' Rogue shook her head, wincing. Poor Jean. Poor Scott.

'Yeah, couldn't get Chuck to forbid it,' Jubilee shrugged sheepishly. 'She tore into him pretty good, too. He's agitated, she's upset.' Jubilee smacked the crumbs off her hands. 'Drama!'

'Good God, you've got all the gossip, haven't you?' Rogue marveled distantly.

'Gotta work down in the graveyard, chica,' Jubilee grinned with that perverse sense of humor. 'All the best gossip involves death, torture, or human suffering.'

Speaking of: 'Do you have any idea what happened to the others?'

Jubilee stuck her tongue in her cheek, sly grin. 'Course I do. I'm in the know. Dropped 'em off in Canada, with a group of Xavier's colleagues. They have new identities now.'

Rogue heard Jean's warm laugh, looked around to watch her playing mother to the students at her table. As she had so many years ago. Strange. 'So it's just Jean who might be exposed by the files.'

'Looks that way,' Jubilee grimaced into her soda. 'I can tell you, I'm not letting anyone else in, no matter what Xavier won't say.' Rogue sent her a significant look, arched brow. 'Obviously not you. We're friends.'

Rogue scoffed, with some affection, 'Jubes, you let me because I'm on the Strategy committee. You're friends with half the school. Maybe three-quarters.'

Jubes grabbed a fry off of Rogue's plate, grinned unapologetically. 'Yeah. I know how to network.' She scraped up the last of her potatoes. 'So you gonna help me out with the redacting or not?'

Rogue hesitated. 'I don't really think I should. I wasn't assigned, and I'm—I shouldn't really have looked in the first place, not without Jean's permission, and—Logan, Jean…I'd just as soon no one knew I knew.'

It was a good thing Jubilee was such a good friend. She sucked the dregs out of her soda through the straw, flipped her a look that oozed irony and disappointment. 'I know, would've been nobler if I'd taken that position from the beginning,' Rogue admitted. 'Don't hate me?'

Jubilee sighed. 'Just have my back in an argument, alright? I'm going to Xavier with the first drafts soon, sending him the copies that won't reveal powers at all. There's enough there without it, but I think Xavier's gonna want more.'

Rogue nodded. She thought they could probably manage that, if they both made enough fuss. But that was always assuming they were let in on the decision-making process. 'Absolutely. Tell Jean, too. Between the three of us, we can take him.'

Jubilee grimaced. 'Reinforcements. He can be such an old white guy about this kind of thing. And he's only gotten worse.'

'Old white guy?' Rogue chuckled. 'Only you could get away with saying that, Jubes.'

And Jubes grinned wickedly; Xavier and Jubes had a somewhat notorious working relationship, fueled not inconsiderably by Jubes' knack for storytelling. She'd even hijacked Xavier's wheelchair battery once, threatened to blow it up altogether if he didn't shut up and listen to her for a second. 'That will release noxious fumes, Jubilation,' Xavier had warned sonorously. 'Exactly!' Jubes had replied. And though Xavier liked to grumble, he'd never found anyone else to match him so well.

'So, what you gonna be doin' now, then?' Jubilee asked, stealing another fry.

'God, I don't know. You got anything? Else, I mean. I feel I really should stay away from anything involving Jean.'

Jubilee chewed. 'Maybe can pull something together for ya, if ya want. 'Course you've got fewer options with that leg.' She cocked a sidelong, pursed her lips. 'You don't want it healed?'

'I—' Rogue'd never been asked before, straight out, felt a mixture of resentment and relief that someone finally had. 'I do. It's getting better. If-if I was anyone else, I'd have to just let it heal, I mean…' she'd received a very skeptical look from Jubes there. 'Ok. I just don't want Logan to heal it right now.'

Jubilee hummed noncommittally. 'Everyone's fine with you taking time off, Rogue. If that's what it is.'

'I don't want time off. I don't.'

Jubes held her gaze for a beat. 'Okay. I'll see what I can do,' reminding Rogue what an invaluable friend she was.

She was lucky and she knew it. She was just doing a crappy job of remembering it.

Because she was alive, which was always something. And she was young and in fairly good health, which was another. And sure the untouchable skin thing was an issue right now, but…there were worse things in life.

Like being held prisoner and being tortured for three years. Being responsible for the deaths of your cellmates because your captors had fucked you up so badly. Being brought back from the dead and to this fishbowl of a school, having telepaths and do-gooders and former lovers wanting to pry into your business. Former students reading the barebones transcripts of the hell your life had been. Finding that the school, your life, that nothing was left of the bits you remembered.

Rogue didn't have that to get over, that for people to pry into. She'd grown up. Safely, here, at the Mansion. Here with Jubes and Kitty (and sometimes Bobby). She'd made friends with Remy, become friends with Scott, lovers with Logan, and…

She was grateful, she was humble. She'd got a lot of things, still had. And even if she didn't always have this, even if many times it was less than everything, she'd have to make it enough.

It was so much more. And she was going to try and remember it.

Ok, easier said than done.


	4. Kid Gloves

**IV: KID GLOVES**

Rogue found a few odd things to do. Xavier's new girl's' typing, for one. And it was boring, and Xavier found out about it and banned her from the office. Then yelled at his assistant.

She informed Ororo about the trouble that her students were having in senior math, just to let her know, because teachers always were the last to. She helped Hank grade his weekly labs, though she strongly suspected that was pity. When she went to Scott, he suggested that she change the monthly bulletin board, for Christ's sake. The saddest part was that she agreed.

And then she thought she'd go to the cafeteria at lunch time, hang out, perhaps chat at a student's table, catch a glimpse of Logan, if he was even there…

And Logan was there. Tall and handsome and talking to Jean as he wasn't with her now. A huddled conference, just the two of them, the anonymous chatter around them, and the jealousy she'd admitted to but never really felt, well…here it was. The dark, chokingness of it, smarting her eyes, the sharp shaft of pain in her chest, radiating everywhere, quivering and brighter and sharper than she—so physical. Logan and Jean together again, and the flashes that were her memories and his, of Jean and Logan and them. Looks and pain and desire and sex. She was physically stuck, struck, in place, feeling it.

They were turned slightly towards the other, and Logan was gesticulating, and Jean was shaking her head as though in disaccord. Logan looked tense, Jean tired, and then Logan was grasping Jean's shoulder, and she saw Jean's nod, her reluctant acquiescence.

And Rogue, with the sliver of brain that was still functioning, was trying desperately to give them the benefit of the doubt. And she had known—this was a possibility, and she had determined…she had decided to stay, and—so even if…They hadn't done anything.

They were talking. Logan was still talking to Jean, scanning the cafeteria remotely, and he caught sight of Rogue, tossed a few words to Jean, Jean's sharp look, deprecating glance, and Logan's speedy departure. Rogue felt a ball in her throat, weight in her chest, stopped hearing the roar of the diners, directed herself like an automaton towards Jean, still there, waiting.

Jean turned, tired and worn, really weary as she hadn't seen her since the first day, dejected. 'I suppose you saw that.'

Rogue was strange and calm, but it was mostly surface. 'Saw Logan leave, yes.'

Jean made some noise, grasped Rogue's elbow, and hustled her out, pushing past the other diners and into the clear hallway, their steps echoing loudly, quite fast, clipped. And Rogue was absently thinking that 'run away, run away' wasn't something she thought she'd do with Jean.

She was being pulled but she was willing, happier certainly than if she were stopping, until she stumbled, her leg burned, suddenly, fiercely, really shook with exertion and pain, she nearly keeled forward, sweat popping on her forehead. 'My leg,' she ground out, now the only thing she could think, and she became aware that she was being supported, soothing words.

And Jean was there: Jean. She liked Jean, she did. Shit.

She thought she might be sick. Was.

Fuck.

'—overdid it,' she heard Jean say. And she panted something back, probably an apology. She was sorry. Fuck. Shit. Couple damns, too. God, etc.

She leaned back. That did not feel good. That was not better. And then she felt something, motion, breeze, lift of hair on her forehead, and she reared back in panic—skin—fell on her ass in the hallway.

'Rogue?' she heard Jean say, and it was amusingly worried. Like Jean was peering over a cliff, worried for her life, instead of just Rogue on her ass in the hallway.

'Mm'k, Jjjnnn,' she mumbled. Oh, God, there was nothing worse than vomit still in your mouth, grainy, foul. And her stomach was unsettled still, and her tailbone ached, and her leg pulled, trembled, throbbed. She wiped her mouth, looked up to see Jean hovering, worried, beautifully and tragically worried.

The woman Logan had once loved, mourned and loved, was beautifully, tragically worried—about Rogue, bum leg, untouchable skin, sitting in her own vomit in the hallway. And it was suddenly hilariously funny.

'Rogue?' Jean was crouching down, very concerned now, but also comically aware of where the vomit was in relation to her shoes. She was also growing desperate, gazing up and down the hallway for others to help with the now-crazy Rogue, and that was somehow funnier. 'Someone?' Jean called out, high-pitched, pinched, 'Anyone?!' And that was funny, too.

'I'm going to get Logan,' Jean said tightly.

NOT funny. 'Jean, wait—' Rogue called, holding out a hand. 'I'm fine. It was just—' she gestured down at herself—'wasn't…? Didn't this strike you as funny? A little?'

Jean looked dubious, and Rogue chuckled weakly. 'I might not be meeting my entertainment quotient lately.' Because Jean still looked torn about whether to go get help, get Logan: 'Can I have a drink of water?' she asked in a small voice.

Jean stood, nodded reflexively, paused indecisively, but then nearly rabbitted off, and Rogue sighed, contemplated her clothes, her vomit-covered sweat pants, the smeared mess in the hall. Well, she was waiting for help to clean that up.

Jean returned with a glass of water, stood over her while she drank, rinsed distastefully—nowhere to spit—had to swallow again. Yuck. Jean's head was cocked to the side, she was peering at her, as though checking for the crazy spot, and if Jean was looking for crazy…

'Thanks,' Rogue returned, and there was a pause. 'We're going to need a mop, some nice sawdust,' and she gestured. Jean remained unmoved. 'I'm sorry. Did I get you at all?'

Jean crouched down again, elbows resting on knees. 'Are you really alright?'

Rogue rubbed her forehead. 'As alright as you get from here.' Jean smiled, the weariness back, and Rogue looked round, for the same help that hadn't been forthcoming for Jean. 'I'm not gonna be much help here. My leg—I don't think I can walk yet.'

'I'm sorry about that,' Jean said in an undertone, shame-faced, then abruptly threw up her hands. 'Vomit. Logan asks me to take care of you, and I cause you to vomit.'

'You can cause someone to vomit?'

'Evidently, I have the gift,' Jean edged out. 'I walked too hard, too fast. Forgot about your—' she pointed.

And as keen as Rogue was to have that be the explanation Jean told herself, the one she told herself, she wasn't keen to have guilt bring this story back to Logan. 'I don't know,' she qualified. 'I walked quite a bit already this morning, even before I ran into you. More than I should've.' And Jean glanced up, shrewdly. 'Coulda been either one.' She shrugged. 'I won't tell if you won't.'

'I don't know, Rogue,' Jean worried, glancing up and down the hallway, but it sounded more like something she wanted to talk herself into, rather than out of.

'If this is more than a one-time thing, I won't keep it a secret. I swear,' Rogue held up a hand—scout's honor. 'But I don't want this to be a big thing. Logan's only just stopped hovering.'

And Jean turned back, uneasy smile but commiserating glance, and Rogue knew it had been the thing to say. Jean went off to find a mop, and Rogue maneuvered to take off her sweat pants, which meant she was in a shirt, a bandage, deadly skin, and her laundry-day Hanes-Her-Way in the hall, but…well, she wasn't exactly sex-on-legs these days, anyway.

She balled up the sweats, inside-out, scooted over to the side of the hallway, and enjoyed the sight of Jean mopping up the hallway more than she might have thought. Well…there was karmic balance. Sort of. Christ, she was a bitch.

Jean finished, swiped a forearm across her brow, and swung round to Rogue quickly enough to see the traces of amusement there. 'Enjoy that, did you?' she admonished without heat.

'In the deepest, darkest part of me,' admitted Rogue, smiling a little.

And Jean chuckled tightly, made to sit beside Rogue in the hallway companionably but sat with such tension, such misgiving that Rogue knew something was up. She looked a question at Jean, who began to worry with her outfit, pants, smoothing down. And Rogue with building anger, dread, and…fear, felt that perhaps she would never forgive Jean, forgive GOD, if she was to be told here, ass growing cold and hard on the floor, that Logan had picked not-her.

'He wants me to—' Jean paused, looked away and down, flipped up again, 'He wants me to go into your mind, see if I can turn off your skin.'

'Oh,' Rogue replied. She wasn't going to process more than that.

And Jean rushed on, 'I told him it would be hard, probably impossible. Even if I could. Because if you can't do it, no one else can either.'

Rogue murmured something.

'And I haven't done that—not since I've been back. I don't—' Jean shook her head, angrily, spoke hardly, 'I've tried hard to create a wall, and I don't know what happens when I try and breach that. It could—could hurt the other person when I do that.'

Rogue made some kind of gesture, but even she didn't know what it meant.

'And,' Jean squared her jaw, stared straight in front of her, 'it would be personal and private, and I may not be the one you want to do it. But I—I promised I'd tell you, ask you.'

Jean turned, and they regarded each other then, and Rogue didn't know what it meant precisely, but she knew she could refuse. 'I don't want that,' Rogue said quietly, calmly. She knew that, and Jean did, too. And their moment wasn't one of understanding, assurance or pity or sympathy…it was about…they both knew.

And it was enough, felt almost like the possibility of friendship with Jean. And Rogue considered it a marvel, that this could do that. And despite Logan's not having asked her, his confiding in Jean, his love, their distance, even Jean's undecided status—she saw how it might be, that worst-case scenario: she might even grow to…unbegrudge Jean. Time.

Flashes of Jean and Logan together. God.

Maybe not. She leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes.

She heard Jean's rusty laugh. 'Boy, isn't this something?' and Jean, when she looked, was bemused but also enervated, twitching slightly. 'We shouldn't let these guys do this to us, huh?' She kicked out a toe absently.

'No, we shouldn't,' Rogue observed ruefully. She shook her head. 'Scott still being an ass?'

'YES,' Jean asserted balefully. 'Although I've got him glaring from a distance now.'

Rogue giggled suddenly, remembering. 'Yes, I saw that—hands on hips, icy looks. The whole bit.'

Jean nodded decisively, 'Comically juvenile.' She crossed her legs primly. 'If it weren't so tiresome. And Logan—?'

'Logan,' Rogue echoed, but with a trace more bitterness.

'Weell, Logan,' Jean swished, then sighed. 'I don't know. He's—' Jean trailed off, but more to get Rogue to answer than anything else, peering not-at-all subtly. Rogue stared blankly ahead.

'Yeah,' Rogue finished evenly.

Jean scrutinized her hands, spoke low, 'I think he's trying.'

Rogue felt the pricks of—blinked them back, swallowed, focused on Jean. 'I think we all are.' And she was proud of how dispassionate it sounded. They exchanged some sad smiles, understanding, rueful. Rogue couldn't do more than that.

A noise from the corridor, thankfully, broke the moment. A nervous voice, tentative steps, 'Um—Rogue? Ms. Grey? Are you—?' A young student approached, stopped, blinked. 'Are you not wearing pants?'

Rogue could laugh at that. 'No, I'm not, hon.' She eased out her leg, winced. 'Starting a new fashion trend, I guess.' She pressed a hand against the wall, got up painfully to a knee, staggered ungracefully to her feet. Stomach—would be ok.

Jean stepped in over-solicitously, drew to her side, but since Rogue actually needed her, she could hardly object. 'I'm alright,' she assured Jean, the student. 'I'll be alright. Nothing time won't fix.'

They were hovering indecisively still, and Rogue leant a hand on the wall. 'But I will heal all the faster,' she confided, more to the student now, who was approaching shyly, 'if you will promise never to tell anyone about my fashion-forward…bare bottom.' She got a small smile out of it. And a shoulder, two shoulders, to limp back to her own room with.

She'd told Jean no, and she knew that would stick. But she still had to tell Logan. Although since he hadn't exactly asked her himself, that in its own way, was his little problem, not hers.

But they had to discuss it; she knew it would come up. And it shouldn't be a conversation about going to Jean, going to others first. Not at first. Not yet. The skin seemed a real issue for him, more than she'd ever suspected. And she tried hard not to let that matter to her, too much. Skin was an issue for her, too.

But, casting back, at those pivotal moments in their relationship—her skin had always been a big deal. When she'd learned to control it, hadn't told him, when he hadn't noticed. At graduation, the lack of an anniversary. Small touches from her—always noticed. And then, of course, her use of touch during her first recon assignment, the bizarre 'what if it never turns off again' conversation that had precipitated their entire relationship. Oh, yeah, so prophetic that. Her skin and touching others had always been an issue with him, perhaps the issue. One she'd never understood or followed up on.

So maybe this was that. Maybe this was Jean. Or Maybe this was them.

But (and she was trying to remember it), this was Logan trying. This was Logan trying to make it work. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

'Did you talk to Jean today?' he demanded, cornering her in the bathroom, stood over her as she rinsed her toothbrush, stowed it away.

'Yes,' she answered, directly, readily. 'Just as you were leaving.' She pivoted to face him, leaning on her good leg, the counter.

He shifted uncomfortably, foot-to-foot. 'What did you talk about?' Guiltily.

She waited until he was looking at her. 'You.'

He was arrested, and his brow pulled, down, frowning, but like he was trying hard not to.

'We talked about you,' she repeated, and he eyed her, huffed away, moved to something else. He was opening the closet, rummaging around, slamming clothes around a little aggressively.

'Logan,' she appealed, limping after, but he continued, and her tone was a little beaten, because she didn't know what else to do, 'I'm trying here.'

He froze, his back growing tense, and he straightened, pivoted slowly to meet her gaze, and he looked ready, waiting, but not like it was with pleasure.

No use dancing around the topic, then. 'I'm—I'm not going to do it,' she told him, with finality, disappointment, defeat. 'My skin. I'm not going to do it.'

He studied her, still taut, still tense, still still. 'Ok,' he affirmed.

Her face felt tight, was beginning to droop. She reached out a hand. 'I don't want her in my head, Logan. It's private, and I—'

'Ok,' he rumbled, more quickly.

'I think this is something that—' and he made a dart, striding past her, and she trailed just behind—'something that will happen on its own.' The shower sputtered angrily, and Logan was treading and retreading the tile, yanking down a towel, flinging the bathmat to the floor, zinging the shower curtain between them.

Clothes plopped to the floor from over the rail.

'Logan?' she called, arms wrapped around herself. 'Logan,' she entreated, could hear the irregular chug as he stood beneath the stream, the splatter, the clink of his dog tags as he shook himself off. She was desperate enough to try once more. 'Logan, I'm sorry,' she confessed wretchedly, then, with no response, cried louder, 'I'm sorry, ok?'

Probably ruined the point of the apology, and anyway, there was no response to any of it. So after a few painful moments, she left, snuck in bed, curled up on her side still facing his, counted the minutes.

She wasn't ready for the squeak of the bathroom door when he came out, the plunge of steam, but he got in, got dressed, quick-time, shut out the light, lay in bed, lay his back to her. Just his stiff back, and then silence and stillness, and she couldn't help whispering, 'It's not a rejection of you, ok?' Her resettling rustled the sheets a bit, but he was perfectly still.

She reached out, laid an open palm to his rigid back, felt the damp heat of him, could just make out the beat of his heart, and her gloved hand was stark, dark against his white shirt. 'Ok,' she answered her own question, because he wasn't going to, curled her hand back to cushion her cheek, curled up tighter in her ball.

She couldn't bring herself to say she was sorry—not again, not to nothing. And, even though Jean had said he was trying, well…she needed more than this.

'Ok,' he said the next morning, as soon as she opened her eyes, and she was groggy, brain not working. His face swam before her, oversized, too close, and he just touched her shoulder lightly.

She gurgled out something incomprehensible, and he repeated, firmly this time, 'Ok.' As though it settled the matter.

'Logan?' she croaked, sobering up quickly, rising quickly, remembering last night's conversation, yesterday, the last few weeks.

He rose, too, shrewdly, assessingly. 'It's ok,' and he rose, began to get dressed.

'What is ok?' she asked, bewildered, a little frustration thrown in.

'It's ok. I forgive you,' he informed her, buckling his belt, zipping his fly.

'You…forgive me?' Had they—all that resentment from yesterday, yes, that was there, alive and well.

He threw on a shirt, his hair was spiked and disarrayed beneath it. 'You're sorry?' he smirked. 'Well, I forgive you.'

Smirked?

'You know what, Logan?' She was stiff, she was deliberate. She considered, and she went with it. 'FUCK. YOU.' And she had never told him that before. Fuck it, fuck off, fuck that. Fuck fuck fuck, shit be damned, but she had never said that before, and she had never truly meant it, either.

'Fuck me?' he repeated, amused jarring little smile.

She bared her teeth. 'Yes. That is what I said. Fuck. You.'

'We don't do that anymore,' he returned mockingly, rocking a little back on his feet.

Her mouth dropped open, and her stomach quivered, and…wow. She hadn't thought she could hate one person so much. She hadn't thought she could hurt so much.

Her brain was working now, bubbling over with things to say to that. Like…

Whose fault was that? And he wanted to fuck her, now? After ignoring her for the better part of a week? After he talked to her through JEAN of all people? Or maybe it wasn't about her, or fucking her, or even fucking? What the fuck was this? All these, hosts more, competed for attention, leaving her flopped and agawp on the bed while he nonchalantly got ready for the day, she heard his daily ritual—bathroom, teeth, shave.

But those other questions—they weren't really at the center of this, and when he came out again, hair combed, glistening sideburns, cocky walk, casual air...

'Why?' Because she needed to know if he was driving her away. Because she wanted to know if he was…hurt or something, angry, or trying to tell her something. Because… she wanted to know—more than she wanted to vent her anger, more than she wanted to hurt him back. 'Why would you say that?'

A foul look fell over his face. 'Nothing. No reason,' he growled, scouring the floor, the closet, for his boots.

And she was propelled, stumbling to her feet, ignoring her leg awkwardly. 'Logan.'

He whirled round. 'I'm SORRY. OK?' Advancing on her, teeth bared, then backing down, crouched away, ripping open the chest of drawers, tossing contents aside to search for something. A pair of socks, evidently.

'It matters, Logan, it matters why you did it,' she insisted, trembling, watching him discard pair after pair, 'You did it to hurt. It matters why.'

The jitters increased, then disappeared. He rose gracefully, and she was tugged off balance and into him, a fierce embrace, not really a hug, and she could hear and feel how calm he wasn't.

They were neither of them calm, both breathing hard, both rigid, awkward, and hot, uncomfortable. She supposed they were both trying, and she swallowed the lump in her throat, buried her head in his chest, and felt him squeeze 'til it hurt.

He smoothed her hair with an open palm, smeared it really, he pressed so tight, but he said again, rumbling low, still that trace of irritation, 'I'm sorry.'

She closed her eyes tighter. 'Me, too.' It was a little cracked at the edges, and she didn't know what it meant, what she was apologizing for, or whether that was the right response. She heard his lusty sigh, and when she shifted to look up at him, his arms fell away too easily.

'I tried to say,' and he touched her shoulder lightly, just barely grazing it, as he had when she'd woken, she now remembered. 'It was ok with me. Not going to Jeannie.'

It was his expression—the little interior part of it that she could still recognize, the part that cared about her—that made her squash her problems with that statement, too, try to reach him, have a real conversation. 'It's not that I don't want it to get better, that I don't—'

'I said it was OK,' he interrupted, squeezing the hand she'd seized, dropping it, patting an arm, but only to dodge past. He seated himself on the bed, pulled on socks, boots.

'O-kay,' she returned slowly, leaning on the bureau, eyeing him as he got ready, and it was harder work now to get past her resentment of him and his 'big idea', his confiding in Jean, his being 'ok' with it. But she didn't want to fight, and he didn't want to talk.

She felt like she was always healing things between them lately. Maybe he felt like that, too. And at some point, she feared one or both of them would find it not worth the effort.

'I have to work,' he informed her, not a complaint, not even an excuse. Information.

'Ok,' she affirmed, slowly, as he shot to his feet, gazed round absently. 'What are you working on?'

He threw her an impatient, rough look.

'It wasn't an interrogation,' she muttered. 'I just wanted to know if I could help.'

He reproved, hands-on-hips, 'Just rest up.'

'My skin is on. I'm not incapacitated.' Well… 'Except for my leg. But I can type, sort, help out. Think.'

He was amused, but softer with it. 'Focus on getting better.' Did he know how boring that was? How much she needed something here?

Maybe he could see, or maybe…that look crossed his face again, and he approached her softly, sniffing slightly, sidelong glances to see if it was alright. And she didn't understand the uncertainty in him, after all that obliviousness before, and she was unhappy but not with his approach.

So when he ventured close, breath hot and uneven, and held out two careful fingers, just touched a lock of her hair, she wrapped both arms around him, squeezed him tight—it was either that or hit him—and he tangled his hands in her hair, pressed a kiss to her crown.

Were they going to be ok? And she realized that would only be comforting if she knew before she asked.

'Have a good day,' she whispered, and he drew back, his face drawing out, too, and he studied her, weariness, some regret mixed in, smiled with old affection. 'You, too.' One last darted kiss to the hairline, and he was gone.


	5. Premission, Postargument

**V: PRE-MISSION, POST-ARGUMENT**

It was a strange week.

She and Logan were living like polite strangers: solicitous, inquiring. Nice. But this was even worse than her first week of enforced isolation, because then she had known if she sniped at him, she'd be forgiven. Maybe yelled at, but forgiven. She wasn't so sure of that now. It was making her wary, him careful.

She succeeded in finding something to do. Jubilee and Kitty put it together, thankfully—great friends. The school's website had been getting a substantial increase in the number of hits per day since the Ohio story broke, and Rogue was charged with creating a blog, linking to relevant news sites, and coordinating with PayPal so that online users could make donations to Xavier's PAC. (The 'What can YOU do' link—all her, baby.)

It was a task that could take as long or as little time as she wanted. She could scour the web, find clips of talk shows, search Google News, Lexus Nexus, drop names, read blogs as much or little as she wanted. She could respond to emails en masse or individually. She could be as bored or as busy, as agitated or blasé about mutant affairs, as she liked.

And since Xavier, Logan, Scott didn't really understand or care about the site, no one objected or scared her off the assignment; she doubted they noticed. Rogue loved some parts of working for 'old white guys'.

She often ran into Jean, also at a loose end. They didn't meet up purposefully, but at least once a day, the lonely times like 10:17 or 2:44. They talked about nothing, something, casually mentioned what they noticed around them: Bobby was visiting Kitty at college a lot of weekends, Xavier was getting a lot of phone calls. But they didn't really care that much; or rather, they didn't talk about the things that mattered. They chatted, they sipped tea, they smiled.

Jean was more somber now, perpetually weary, and though she surrounded herself with students, she rarely talked, led discussions as she had before. All Rogue knew was that the 'press of minds' helped, and that she could occasionally make Jean smile.

Jean still hadn't forgiven Scott, whose archangel impression at meal times and short fuse with the students made that clear. But Rogue didn't think it was Scott, really. Something was going on: Jean was in session with Xavier for several hours a day now, and Rogue wondered if the torture, the years of incarceration were beginning to take their toll. Or if Xavier was pushing; she'd heard nothing from Jubilee at all.

But she didn't ask, never would. They weren't friends, not even truly friendly, but chatting, even for an instant, helped break the day up, lighten it. And Rogue figured that was mostly because there was someone else just trying to get by, too.

She couldn't turn her skin off, couldn't make that final incisive off that she'd kept in place for months at a stretch before. She was growing concerned about it.

Logan was, too. Perhaps concern was the wrong word.

She'd had to buy new gloves, had taken to wearing the scarves, too, and his comment—the one spontaneous one of the week—had been, 'So when's this gonna end?' Like it was such a problem for him. Like she even knew.

But he'd half-apologized. Again. Been reserved but moody, polite, and distant since. Nervy, too. And she didn't know how much longer he would take it, how much longer she could.

Her thigh was healing up, though. Just a long red gash, the new skin strained and slick. The shower spray beat down on her, and she felt the discomfort that was all muscular now. Ached but in a good way. Her leg was healing – why couldn't this? Was she sure she wanted to know?

A draft of cold air made her look up, and behind the rushing steam, she could see Logan there, hand on to the door to the bathroom, staring at her, at her leg. He looked tense, intense, and she couldn't see his eyes to see what that meant, but she braced herself.

His voice was low. 'Let me heal it, Marie.' Advancing.

'Logan,' she warned, shunting off the water, firm click.

'Let me heal it,' and he stepped forward. 'It's been three weeks. Let me heal it now.'

And she couldn't take it now, not from nothing. 'Logan, I can't turn it off,' she trembled, pulling the shower curtain over her in a futile attempt to cover up. That gesture, more than her words, stopped him. 'I-I can't turn my skin off. Logan, please.'

He halted, his chest heaving a bit. 'Then it's not a problem for me to heal your leg,' he countered, huffed.

'But I can't—I can't have you in my head right now.'

'You already have me in your head,' he said, angry now, advancing, unconvinced. 'Don't you?' he questioned suddenly. 'Don't you?'

'Yes,' she confirmed, swallowed. 'Yes, Logan, I still have you in my head.'

And he nodded, but he didn't look particularly happy about that either. He also looked like he wasn't conceding the point. He took another step towards her.

'It's…it's different every time,' she tried frantically. 'Please, just…please, don't touch me?' She tugged on the shower curtain a little desperately now to try to cover herself more completely. 'Okay? Don't touch me?—Please?'

He stiffened, and she wondered, a flash, if she'd hurt him, but couldn't let herself worry, not in the face of his stiff, non-control. But then he grated, 'I won't.'

And…'Ohmygod, Thank you,' she breathed.

He made a fist, and she could tell she had hurt him. 'I wouldn't if you didn't want me to, Rogue. I wouldn't ever do that.' His eye was glinting a little, and she suspected, when he swallowed, that he had more he'd like to say that he wasn't. She was sorry that she wasn't ready to hear it. A frozen moment, as she was feverishly hoping he wouldn't say anything more, and he grew ever more rigid.

'I know,' she placated, swallowed anxiously. 'I'm sorry. Thank you,' she tried instead, but that did nothing to appease him, his jaw tensing more.

She decided…she decided to reach out a tentative hand to him. 'I know. I'm sorry. Logan.' She touched his chest gently with one hand, felt him…shift slightly. 'Logan, please. I'm sorry.'

'Marie?' he asked in a breath, and it was searching and frustrated and bewildered all at once.

'I know. I'm sorry. I know…I know you'd never hurt me,' she got out, leaning into his chest, the wet shower curtain still between them. She did know that—not if he could help it, not when he knew for sure. And his arm crept around, pressed carefully, so careful not to touch her skin. And she nearly cried; the closest to understanding they'd been in several days.

She stayed pressed into him for a few minutes, and it felt good to hear the beating of his heart, and the warmth of his body, the heaviness of his skeleton.

Her thigh began to ache in this position, and she didn't want to acknowledge it, considering. But Logan seemed to notice, holding her from him and shooting her an ironic look while he found a towel and gently unwrapped the shower curtain.

'Turn around,' he ordered quietly, and he calmly dried off her back and legs and towel dried her hair. She strove not to shiver while he did it. Then he scooped her up in the towel and deposited her on their bed. Going to the bureau, he brought out her underwear, socks, a comfortable bra. 'Here,' he motioned, sitting on the bed, and watched while she got dressed quietly.

No clothes, no gloves, lotsa skin, and she wondered if this was a test of her trust. She'd give it to him. She forced herself to relax.

He was still watching. She could sense that there is something else, but didn't know what to ask, what she could ask.

'There's a mission,' he stated, and she nodded. 'I have to go.'

And he was calm, so strangely calm now, after his inexplicable demand before—really poorly timed, if there was a mission, really long in coming, if about her leg—and after their silence, their distance these last few weeks—really, really odd. Would she ever have predicted they could be so calm like this? Pre-mission, post-argument.

But if he could be calm, so could she. So…'For how long?' So she wouldn't worry. So she wouldn't wonder.

''Bout a day,' and he said it sternly like…a warning?

That was enough of that, so she made her own warning back. 'You're not going to pull some crazy shit just because I'm not there to stop you?'

He grinned, thank goodness. 'I won't if you won't,' and it was only half-warning now.

'Deal.' She grinned back, and would have offered to shake hands on it, but…no gloves, and she didn't want to bring up that hastily-diverted topic. So she leaned forward and pecked his cheek in those lovely ridiculous sideburns. She loved him. 'Be safe.'

As she pulled away, his face turned towards hers, and he was gazing at her lips, and she knew, now at least, after their little we-don't-fuck conversation, that he wanted her—still—his gaze drawn along there and down her front, over her skin. His eyes heated, locked on hers, and the emotions were shifting quickly there, like he couldn't quite decide how to play it.

Maybe that idea scared her more than all, because she didn't want him to think to be careful with her. Not with her, not with this; it wasn't working, had never worked, and hell, between the two of them, they'd fuck this up with overthinking. And who could have predicted that?

But while she was worrying, he reached a decision, the last one she would have expected.

His hand ran along the edge of her bra, his nail scraped gently against her breast, and he watched her flush. He growled, still touching, and tipped his head to the side and bit her neck at the pulse point, just a puff of breath, a nip of teeth.

And then deliberately, he was rising. 'When I get back.' And it sounded like a warning and a promise.

She stared up at him. 'Ok.'

He smiled wolfishly and left. Rogue flopped back on the bed, letting out a whoosh of breath.


	6. Waiting & Sex

**VI: WAITING & SEX**

They hadn't actually had sex since the mission they found Jean Grey. For so long, she'd been denying it, not noticing. And then she hadn't known he'd want to. Fuck her. Anymore. Poison skin, injured leg, Jean back, them-not-talking and all.

But now she did.

Denial was a lovely thing. Now she was resentful and anxious and horny and bored; she might have done without the horny.

She'd forgotten how much she hated being left behind.

The students were never actually informed, but there was no denying that faculty members were gone. 'Conference', 'teacher's convention', 'recruitment effort'—that last, probably her favorite. How stupid did they think students were? How many 'recruitment efforts' resulted in injury, and the non-presence of recruits?

Rogue felt the telling thing was that no student ever asked the obvious questions, ever quibbled over the gaps in logic, just shyly welcomed their teachers back, blinked at their leaving. They were good kids, pretty used to it now, considering the number of mission this past year.

Hank in his med lab, nervous preparation. She hadn't really thought about it, but the med lab wasn't really set up for crash surgery… experiments, the occasional sick student. But Hank made the best of it: crash carts, specialized devices for certain mutations: a diamond-cutting saw for Logan, a set of oversized goggles for Scott, burn salves for Storm's lightning…gloves, body suits, for her.

She wondered if Jean would help this time.

Xavier was gone, the eastern grounds temporarily requisitioned, both to hide the absence of the helicopter and prevent injury when it returned.

The office was eerily quiet, the halls. Or maybe Rogue was reading into her own tension, but she wished she'd been able to suck it up and let Logan heal her already. It sucked being left behind.

She ventured out, determined to get out if only for a short while, and Logan must have said something, because as soon as she emerged, she found herself with company. Scott, and no longer trailing Jean, he had the time.

'Hey,' he called out, jogging a little from down the corridor to catch up. She shot him a glance from over her shoulder, murmured a greeting, and made for an exit, any exit, from the building. 'Going somewhere?' he asked meaningfully, and she paused and turned to him as she came upon the double doors.

She huffed. 'Taking a walk. On the grounds.' She couldn't stay in here anymore.

'I'll go with you,' he told her.

She whirled. 'Look, are you my keeper or something? Where's Jean, anyway?' He remained unmoved, and she regretted taunting him. With Jean, anyway. 'Look, did Logan—? I absolve you of responsibility, 'k?' She waved her hands –poof—at him. Be gone.

He tilted his head, quirked into a wry grin. 'Come on, Rogue,' he wheedled, little-boy appeal. 'I need the company,' and she was charmed in spite of herself; she had forgotten he could be like this.

She cocked a hip, chewed on her cheek. 'Fine,' she relented, and he beamed with that enormous dimple. 'But no talking, alright? I just need to…clear my head.'

He threw up his hands, backed off and held the door open for her, smiling out of the corner of his mouth again.

She threw him a last wary glance, but slid past and outside. Her leg ached, but she limped off willfully, wished almost immediately that she'd brought a stick. She lurched for about half a mile, grunted a little with the pain, and, when Scott threw her an amused look, she veered off the path, collapsed onto a bank of dry grass clumsily.

Scott hunkered down, too, found a small twig, absently threw it, and they stared at the sunset for a while. She rearranged her leg, wished for a distraction.

'Jean still mad at you?' she asked him.

'Yup,' he returned indolently. 'Logan still mad at you?'

'Yup,' she returned, tight laugh, and they exchanged rueful looks. 'Why he bothered to find a babysitter, I don't know,' she griped, eyeing her leg distastefully.

'Perhaps because he knew you'd do something crazy like walk half a mile off school grounds,' Scott returned meaningfully.

Rogue muttered, 'I'm gonna make it back.'

'Yes, you are, because I'm not carrying you,' Scott forewarned, pulling out blade of grass and peeling it. Logan would have chewed on it instead, and Rogue, sobering, wondered what he was doing now.

'Do you know what the mission is?' she queried.

'Let's not, Rogue.'

She didn't know what he meant, but she knew she resented it. 'What does that mean?'

'He didn't tell you for a reason. I'm not getting involved.'

'Excuse me? I—'

'He wants you to get better, control your skin. He thinks it might have something to do with stress, or—'

'Not knowing causes me more stress,' Rogue ground out. Because she didn't know much righteous indignation she could summon up for being treated like a child when she was, occasionally, behaving like one.

'Really?' He could be so prim.

'Stress, anxiety. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. I don't like feeling out of the loop.'

He shrugged, unconcerned. 'None of us do.' Yeah, she bet so.

She eyed him balefully. 'I think I liked you better two years ago, when you and Logan weren't so chummy with each other. This band of brothers shit is seriously annoying.' She wished for a stick to poke him with. To walk back with.

'Two years ago, Logan would never have asked me to go with you,' he pointed out.

'I invited you along,' she retorted, 'a decision I'm already regretting. Your appeal was so fleeting.' He grinned boyishly again, and the charm was back with the dimple, tiresomely winsome. Blech!

There was another pause, and Scott was contemplative, listening to the katydids and songbirds, but Rogue had been alone enough, heard her own thoughts and silent rooms and night noises enough to be bored and sick and tired. So she prodded, a little ill-temperedly, 'So are there any Logan-approved conversations we can have, any topics you can square with your conscience, or do we sit here together and consider the lilies of the field, the birds of the air?'

Scott chuckled dryly, all his chuckles were dry, but answered, 'I was thinking about Jean. About three years ago and now.'

'Oh,' she returned softly, retreating, because that was a conversation she was pretty sure she shouldn't have, with Scott, with anyone.

But he mused on. 'I was wondering if she's ever going to love me again.'

'Scott—?' warning, regret, plea.

'Doesn't look so good now she won't talk to me,' just enough cynicism running through it that it wasn't a whisper. 'Do you know why?' he continued, features hardening. 'Well, I tried to help her, tried to get her to deal with her incarceration. And now—' with a sour chuckle—'Xavier is doing all that, and she's letting him, talking to him.'

She would embrace, she would leap upon, she would smother with kisses a lilies-of-the-field discussion now. But his expression was so warped with gall, she couldn't help the dismay, 'Scott, you can't be jealous of Xavier.'

'She'll take help from anyone else…'

'Maybe she can't take help from you,' Rogue castigated. 'Maybe you're too close; she needs someone with a little distance.' He grumped, and she drew back, continued with some displeasure. 'And he's forcing her, pushing her. Do you want to be that guy?' She rearranged her leg, grimaced.

Scott was scowling, nearly pouting. 'She won't even talk to me.' Definitely whining.

'You were invading her privacy!' Rogue exclaimed, torn between anger and bemusement.

'Privacy,' Scott grumbled, 'never used to be an issue.'

Rogue sighed. 'Well, a lot of things have changed.'

Scott fidgeted, twitched, and she decided to let him be. She didn't know what to say, didn't want to say, anyway. But where Logan would have calmed down in the silence, Scott seemed to grow more agitated. And after moments of increasing tension, he spewed out, 'So what the HELL am I supposed to do?!' And he was rising and heaving and beginning to pace, but with such addled energy, she was a little concerned.

She really wished she knew this better, how to calm him down. She propped herself up on one hand, tried to rise, but, feeling the weak tremors of the muscle, knew that was a bad idea. Voice only, then. 'Scott,' it was quiet, firm. That was about all she had.

He stalked away, maybe five paces, halted, shaking, tensing every muscle, and she darted a quick glance around, wishing there was someone ambulatory in sight. But he huffed out a breath, repeated in a tight but less volatile tone, 'What am I supposed to do?'

She didn't know, and that was all she could think. So, 'I don't know, Scott,' she replied unhappily. 'I'm sorry.'

He pivoted to look at her, twisted round, and he was eerily calm again. 'What should I do?' and it was clipped, demanding.

She took a moment to answer, because she wasn't sure of him, of the evenness of his temper, the state of his mind. And she didn't have answers, didn't want to be involved. 'Scott, I'm not exactly unbiased,' she stated. 'I don't—'

'You know. You could give me something,' he responded tightly, narrowly, stepping one step closer, towering above her that much more.

She didn't appreciate it, though she didn't think he did it to intimidate precisely. But she was uncomfortable, a little resentful, felt the prickle of hurt, thread of guilt in there, too, especially since his position was so close to her own. And because she could question the purity of her motives in this case, and because she had done what he had, just hadn't been caught, and because, big picture, she didn't know what would happen.

'Scott.' His name had held that ring of warning pretty often recently. 'I don't think there's much to do.' He blinked, deflated, so she went on in resignation, 'We just have to wait. Wait for her to deal. Wait for her to choose.' She eyed the ground absently, tacked on testily, 'Support her in the meantime.'

'That's it?' he rocked back on his heels.

She threw her own bitter laugh. 'That's it.'

He threw himself back down in the grass with a huge sigh, one that might have been stagy at another time. 'So it's all her choice, huh?'

Rogue eyed him soberly, swallowed. 'You get a choice. You get to choose whether you wait, see if she chooses you, too.'

Scott rubbed his forehead dejectedly, huffed in exasperation.

'Yeah,' she returned sardonically. He shook his head, and she got the feeling he wouldn't mind dwelling on his misery for a while, but she couldn't take the silence. 'God, sometimes life needs a fast-forward button. But then I'm not sure I'd have the courage to use it, unless I got to use the rewind, too.'

He grinned amiably, gestured to her gloves. Boy, did he ever have that quicksilver temperament. 'Would you go back and not touch him?'

Rogue sighed, looked down at her hands with a twinge of melancholy. 'No, guess not. Save that for something I didn't do.'

'Really?' he sounded intrigued, but didn't pursue it, paused. 'Think it's permanent?'

'Switch is still there,' Rogue shrugged. 'Can't access it. Who the hell knows?' Now that he was back to semi-normal, she figured she'd better seize the opportunity to get back. She propped herself up, held out a questing hand in his direction, and he rose, pulled.

'All is well, it's for the best,' Scott chanted darkly, and he supported her for a moment while she winced, tried to work herself up to walking back.

She finally registered his comment, clutched at one arm as she limping painfully. 'Gotta get you out of freshman English classes,' Rogue sniggered, finding it easier to focus on him than the strain. 'Voltaire's probably the worst philosopher for you.'

'Oh, no, gives me perspective. And this too shall pass. And God doesn't care. In his heaven and so on. Lovely, life-affirming sentiments.' He grinned, supported more of her weight.

'You know, you're more charming when you're not morbid and cynical,' she grunted, but she was diverted, too.

'I'll have to remember that,' he slanted a wry grin at her, the one with dimples.

'See? Right there, flash those pearly whites, those boyish dimples at Jean every once in a while. Make her laugh while you wait.'

'I don't know if I can be charming and witty that long.'

Poor Scott, and Rogue chortled, despite the pain in her leg, despite the ennui and nerves and angst. 'I don't know if you can, either.'

Logan was gone for more than a day, 'bout a day, whatever. He was gone more than two.

School continued; the students had self-evaluations, peer-crits, a few videos in some classes to squeak by. Scott was busy, covering his classes, Logan's. Fine, reasonable, fine.

But Jubilee had disappeared, calls stopped coming in for Xavier. Jean no longer wandered the halls.

Something was happening.

And Rogue tried not to wonder if this out-of-the-loop business, this protect-Rogue-from-knowing business, would seriously keep her from knowing of someone's death or mutilation or…something…

The school was eerie, eerier somehow that the students hadn't really picked up on it, that their chatter was as frothy and unconcerned as ever. Rogue couldn't handle their ignorance, not when she was reading so much into her own. The third day, she spent nearly entirely in her room.

She didn't feel the change when they returned. She was gnawing on her nails while watching t.v., curling her toes into the floor. Then she'd heard it, the unmistakable clomp of Logan's stride in the hallway, his smack opening of the door.

She jerked to her feet.

He'd had time for a shower, was freshly shaved, even. It occurred to her that he might have stayed away, tried to heal up, before coming back.

But wherever he had been, whenever he'd come back, he was intent on coming in now, his eyes fierce, his movements agitated.

'Rogue,' he called, hoarsely. She could tell from his face that it had been bad.

He came forward a little haltingly. 'Logan?' she whispered, and he lurched for her again, hand outstretched.

'Please?' he asked, reaching for her. She flinched back, and he…his face fell, he looked absolutely crushed.

'No, Logan. My skin. I can't…I still can't,' she wanted to warn him.

And he reached out for her again. 'I'll be careful,' he pleaded: it was still a question.

'Yes. Okay. Logan. We'll be careful,' and she tried to shush him. She hadn't known that 'when I get back' meant right when he got back… She clasped his opposite forearm and made to go to the bed, to get her gloves, more layers, they'd never really had to deal with this, but his searching arm grabbed for her. 'Rogue?'

He made a grab for her, cupped her ass, pulled her into him. His hands clutched at her, pressing here, pulling there. 'Marie?' he whispered, and she could feel him trembling, all at odds with his handling of her.

'Yes, Logan,' she answered, pressing closer to him, giving him permission. They'd just have to be careful, because it didn't look like he was waiting.

His gaze settled on her lips, and he leaned forward to taste…she pulled away, and he remembered, looking disappointed and uncertain how to proceed, and she stroked him through his shirt, tried to reassure.

Then he wrenched her T-shirt tight across her chest and devoured her nipples, bathing and tonguing them, using more teeth over the tough material. It felt incredible. She groaned. 'Rogue.' He almost panted, still clutching, licking, 'Rogue.'

His touch was familiar and shocking and hard, not rougher but clumsier than before, and it made her tingle, made him more human than before. Needy. She wanted. Racing her hands over his chest, recklessly in his hair, writhing, arching up into his mouth, his hands. She wanted—him, just whatever he wanted her to be. She could hear his heartbeat, pounding away, feel his jagged breath, and his hands were rough, unsteady. 'Logan. God, Logan,' she whispered.

Suddenly, he yanked her, up and against him, slammed her back into the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, ground into his hot erection, and held on. He found her roaming hands, yanked clumsily at her upper arms where she was clothed, and she cooperated, so he could bracket them above her head, lean a forearm arm hard against them, and his breath was hot and rough against her face as he looked at her.

'Marie, I need—' his eyes seemed to be searching for something in hers, almost desperately, and he leaned more heavily on her arms. Her chest was heaving, she was flushed, and her brain wasn't working fast enough to know what it meant, so she settled on, 'Yes.' And he leaned in, attacking her neck with mouthed kisses and smart nips through her hair, and she tilted her head to accommodate him. Groaned.

She was getting small pulls from her skin as he licked his way across her neck, the hair only half a barrier. Not long enough to get anything real or to drain him, but enough that he let her hands go to clutch his shoulders and let the wall take them both. And enough to feel his needy desire wash over her. She moaned his name and forced shaky hands between their bodies to undo his zip.

She found him, hot and hard through his pants, and he reacted frantically, attacking her jeans and nearly dropping her to the floor to get them off, his grip rough against her injured thigh, but it felt good, it all felt so amazing and raw and now. She needed him now. He bit her shoulder to keep her still while he tore off her jeans, and she tried ineffectually to kick them off while he found the condom on the nightstand. He fumbled with it but got it on, and her jeans were still hanging off of one leg when he pressed her bodily into the wall again, lifted her, and slid up and in her, and they both stilled.

The denim was hard and scratchy, the zip chafed, and he was clutching too hard, too awkwardly at her waist, pressing heavily, confined to touch in certain places because they hadn't thought ahead. But it was him, within her moving, the pain somehow contributing to the pleasure. And when he pumped into her, slammed into her, she heard herself give a little cry.

Hard to establish a rhythm, daring to press so close with bare legs and arms and skin all wrapped around him. But there was also desperation and want and recklessness, a realization they'd both gone too far to stop, that neither wanted to. And so suddenly it was there, awkward, jerky thrusts and huffing loudly in her ear, fingers digging into her and screwing up his face. She could feel herself tipping over, back arched and tensed, every muscle groaning and she could just hear his shout as she splintered into orgasm.

She was aware of their irregular breaths first, and then the sharp-and-dull pull in her thigh, and then the discomfort of her back, where Logan's hands and their combined weight pressed in, and she slowly slid down to stand in front of him, still in his embrace, and hugged him to her as she reclined against the wall.

His breathing slowed, and he brought a hand up to gentle her hair. His eyes still held the glow from sex, but he leaned forward and, before she could react, kissed her, just a brush of lips, a swift sweep of tongue.

She…she'd missed that so much.

She felt the pull almost immediately, but he held her still, kissed her one more time before pulling back, almost staggering back, and then leaning heavily, into the wall again.

She murmured his name low and stroked his back, and a few minutes later, he drew back, tired but smiling sweetly. She took this opportunity to tug him toward the bed, kicking off her other pant leg as she went. 'Bed. Good,' she tried, smiling, and they flopped down together. She reached for a tissue, helped him dispose of the condom. He hauled her to him, few strokes to her hair, and soon afterward, she could hear the change of breathing that signaled he was asleep.

She sighed, trying to quiet the surfacing questions in her mind. The small dose of him she'd got wasn't enough to answer much…a few horrifying images of blood and char and stink, a few glimpses of her own face during sex (is that what I look like?), a torrent of emotions, more settled now. No real answers. Those she could get tomorrow. She closed her eyes and focused on his heartbeat, the patter of breathing, and curled up to him to get some sleep.


	7. Healing?

**VII: HEALING**

When she opened her eyes, she saw Him, staring at her intensely. She had always secretly hated that, the idea of him watching her until she woke. It could feel protective or loving, but with him it had always reeked of interrogation.

But today, she was almost glad of the opportunity, because there were things that must be said.

She started to rise, but he pressed her back down with a hand to her hair, and she complied because she couldn't touch him, not without gloves, and her legs and forearms were still bare. She eased back down.

'So,' he said, eyes narrowed slightly. 'You still can't turn it off.'

Somehow that just pissed her off—anger that had nothing to do with his having predicted exactly that two years ago, and then taken her to bed for the first time, rather like last night, entirely without explanation. She strained to get up, but he exerted more pressure on her shoulder. 'Why?'

'Why?' she accused, let a big ol' pause hang there. 'Don't you think if I knew why that I would be doing something about it? Huh?' She flicked her arm to get his off, rolled out from him to her knees to the bed, looking down on him. 'You want to start interrogating people, why don't we ask you about last night. What the hell was that?'

He stood before her, arms aggressive even when crossed at his chest. 'You enjoyed it,' he returned evenly.

'Enjoyed it? What the—? You go on a mission, that you told me about only hours before leaving, by the way, preceded by days of not talking, and you come back with that tormented look on your face, and jump me, and that's all you can say?...That I enjoyed it?'

His jaw was tense, and he was starting to invade her personal space. 'Rogue, your skin is—'

'No, stop with the skin thing. Nothing's new with me. I don't know what's going on with me, ok? But you—' she gave him a big poke in the chest as he made a grab for her, 'are going through something, too, and I sure as hell don't know what it is. You don't fucking tell me.'

He squeezed her shoulders through her T-shirt. 'Rogue, listen, we're going to—'

'No, you listen,' she cried, twisting away, 'we're not doing anything – just back—'

'Rogue,' and he grabbed her upper arm. 'I'm sorry. Let's start again.' He was gruff and taut, but he pulled her stiff body into his, and embraced her for a few minutes. She could feel his lips brush the top of her head. She wondered if she was being petty, and then stopped wondering… ok, so she was, but she wasn't sure if she was ready to get over it. Wasn't sure what she needed to get over it.

'So, d'ja sleep well?' he asked hesitantly, his voice muffled in her hair.

She was surprised into a bark of laughter. Ok, she'd try to get over it. 'Yeah,' she answered, face down but easing away. He was still holding her by the shoulders, and she made a conscious effort not to let that piss her off.

He kind of jiggled her a few times, in an effort to get her to look up at him. So she did, a kind of darting glance, an un-smile. That's all there was, she was trying.

He sighed and hugged her to him again, and she was more willing this time. He said softly, 'So the mission was…another lab,' and he exhaled suddenly, and a few of the images from last night assembled and she could see suddenly the starkness of cement cells, overgrown, moldy, wet, with fermenting metal toilets and a drain in the floor. His behavior made a lot more sense now, and she decided to let go of the anger entirely.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered, putting her arms around him, squeezing him a little.

'Yeah?' and he tugged on her hair a little, coaxing her head up so he can see her face, and he looked uncertain, searching, like last night.

And it was this…this uncertainty that she just didn't get. 'Logan?'

And his face fell a little, his eyes closing as he brought their foreheads carefully together. 'I'm sorry about last night.'

'Why?' she asked gently, because she really didn't understand why he was sorry about that. She'd far rather he was sorry about other things. 'You were right; I enjoyed it,' she tried, striving for a little hilarity. His eyes opened, and he moved his hand from her shoulder to cradle her head.

'M'rie,' he admonished.

'I really, truly did,' she smiled, stroking his back. 'You were pretty wild. Wouldn't even let me get my pants off.' His smile was pretty pitiful. 'Hey. Hey, Logan. What is this? Talk to me.'

'I'm sorry, Marie. I'm sorry I went.'

She rubbed his tense arm. 'Hey. I'm sorry, too, if it means you feel as bad as this.' He was looking a little more calm but a lot more silent, so she tried, 'Yeah, ok, but, like what specifically was it that made you so sorry? Hmm?' God, this was like milking a stone.

He stroked up and down her spine, breathing in and out regularly. 'I'm… I didn't want to leave you.'

She had to admit to being more confused by this, but she answered, 'I was ok. I was ok here while you were gone. I was ok.' Certainly more ok than he was, having left.

He pulled her full into him, and she could feel him swallow. 'Logan.' There was a pause. 'Logan, a bit more, okay? What is it? Tell me.'

His next remark was a whisper, 'I wish you'd let me touch you.'

She pulled away so that she could look up into his face, but at the first sign of her withdrawal, his arms dropped to his sides, and on his face was an expression of defeat. She grasped his shoulders this time. 'You want to… to touch me?'

'Yes,' he answered, looking and sounding weary.

She glanced down. 'But my leg…it's almost healed, I mean,' and she gestured, 'three-and-a-half weeks, a few doses last night. It's really almost healed.' She felt so foolish repeating herself, but they were both a touch slow this morning. And her leg was visibly better, the pink scar peeking out from under her T-shirt, even if she did feel where she overused it last night.

He was still standing there despondently, arms impotently at his sides, but he asked, 'Please?'

She didn't know why, and they were still not talking, not really, but he seemed to need this, and that she could see. So she looped her fingers in his belt loops and tugged him again toward the bed. 'Ok,' she answered, pushing him to sit and then lie on the bed.

She hunkered down over him, and his arm came up to lay lightly against her back, and she leaned forward, but something was still dead in his eyes. So she tucked herself in beside him and gave a small smile and waited.

He gingerly adjusted himself to his side, facing her, and his arm drifted over her clothed waist and hips, and his eyes drifted over her face, as if trying to memorize it. 'Marie,' he whispered, and then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her, long and deep.

She could feel the pull strong and powerful, and how his kiss slowed but didn't falter when it started to really drain him. She tried to pull away, but his clasp was firm, and she only succeeded when he began to lose consciousness.

His hand dropped, and she panicked at first until she found his even breathing and steady heartbeat and watched his color fill back in slowly. And then she was calm enough to feel the effects of his healing, the burn and pull in her thigh that settled into vague warmth, the relief of last night's aches and pains, and the power she always felt after absorbing another person.

She also felt overwhelming relief, and realized, after a minute, that it was his, the emotion not attached to any image she could grasp. She closed her eyes, felt the rest of him filtering in unevenly in that peculiar way it always was with him, as many of the same images came to fit in with the jumble of images she had already. Like putting together the incomplete jigsaw, never knowing if she'd seen this piece before. It was always exhausting…and sometimes boring.

She stroked his chest and hoped he wouldn't be out for the rest of the day.

He stirred slightly, opened his eyes, and she shushed him and kept him down. His expression was relieved and tired, and he accepted the admonition to sleep without protest.

She couldn't turn off her skin, she couldn't really do anything with this much from him—she needed a few hours at least, until the filter was complete. So she settled down next to him, not to sleep, but to wait with him in her mind and her bed, to see how they fit together.

She woke up groggily about four hours later: she had dozed, she supposed, when the images had started sloughing, rather than racing, by. She hadn't learned much, hadn't really been searching too hard, either. A few scenes of their arguments over the past weeks: the images blurred, roiling. So many emotions she couldn't tease them apart. Conflicted. Confused. Join the club.

He'd been really worried about her leg; funny, her concern had been so much more focused on her skin, despite the physical pain of the other. Her injury had seemed easier, to focus on, to fix, but her skin was unforgettable. Maybe it was the mission, though—she'd only got one image from him, the Blackbird, her thigh, funnily—damn that was a lot of blood—she could understand how that might result in a fixation.

But she still couldn't jive that impression with the last few weeks, the last few years, really. Didn't a leg that would heal on its own rate somewhat below a skin-sucking mutation with wonky control? She had no idea, no image, no information, there.

Not too much on Jean, either—but then she'd been actively not looking. He'd healed her, as he'd wanted, and she was grateful for that. She didn't really feel a claim to his privacy as well, not unless it was forced upon her consciousness.

Christ, she had a headache. Absorption always did that. And…no, any hopes that her control was somehow tied to her injury—out the window. Just as not-off, can't-reach-it as ever.

She should probably get Logan something to eat; he was always better with food. She knew from his memories that it wasn't pain he felt, but that he was rather under-the-weather while he recovered. She had once teased him that it was what everyone else felt when they got the flu or a bad cold. But he hadn't been in the mood to be teased, and, in all honesty, she didn't know the etiquette of teasing someone over the pain they experienced while saving your life.

She slid out, trying not to disturb him. He never liked it when he woke up from this and she wasn't there. She didn't feel that that was necessarily too much to ask, but…fine, it was boring. Confining, stifling. Especially when she hadn't wanted/needed it this time. Well, ok, that was particularly ungenerous, but sometimes…

When she rose, though, and stretched and felt how good, how energetic her body was, she wondered if she had time for a quick workout. She hadn't had a real one since she'd injured her thigh, and she couldn't waste this feeling.

She eyed him—opening her drawers slooooowlyyyy—decided she could. She gathered her clothes to her, and tiptoed her way to the door. Maybe two hours? She inched the door shut and eased it locked.

The workout was wonderful. She ran—and ran and ran, and it felt excellent and the right sort of fatiguing and wonderful. And she hefted the weights and felt the burn and knew she'd be sore tomorrow. She eyed a few of the senior boys who were grappling on the mats, but she knew she couldn't risk it with her skin.

So she called it a day, and wiping her brow, headed to the kitchenette, heating up a bowl of soup to get over her guilt, and chugging a bottle of water from the fridge. She felt guilty, but not guilty enough, as the saying went, and wiped a sweaty brow, and justified that Logan was always telling her to work out more.

Speak of the devil, in he dragged himself, eyes bloodshot, short of breath, complexion a little green. 'What are you doing?' he grated, eyeing her across the counter.

She panicked, caught and hoping to get away with it, and she gestured to the microwave, 'Soup.' He swallowed distastefully, and she hastily amended, 'Soup for you. I thought you could do with some food.'

'Not now. Before,' he panted, his voice gravelly.

She wiped her brow with her forearm, confessed colorlessly, 'I went to work out. Get back in shape.'

He swayed and clutched the wall to straighten himself. She forgot her guilt and darted round the kitchen bench to get to him. 'Come on,' she coaxed, draping his arm around her shoulders carefully without gloves, and holding tight round his waist. 'Let's get you back to bed.'

He grunted but complied. Sweat was beginning to pop on his forehead. She couldn't help but mutter, 'What were you thinking, coming all the way down here?'

'You…weren't….,' he snarled between pants, and his face squinched in exertion.

'Shut it. You're not well, sugar.' He shot a pissed and pointed look at her, and she grumbled, 'I know, I know, my fault. It'll still be my fault when we get to the room. Come on.' He paused, leant against the wall again, panting, and he measured her up and down crossly, no doubt wondering if he could get back to the room without her. 'Come on, sugar,' she wheedled gently now. 'I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be up so soon. Come on. C'mere.'

He allowed himself to be pulled down the hall, and he was leaning on her heavily by the time they got to their room. He fell onto the bed awkwardly. She settled him, and he sighed a little weakly at the ceiling. 'Alright, sugar, I'll be right back.'

He got agitated, made an inarticulate noise. 'Your soup. I'll be back,' she repeated. He attempted a grab at her wrist, but she jumped up quickly, jerked back—no sleeves, naked wrist. 'Logan,' she said more firmly, stepping out of range. 'I'll be right back. You need something to eat before you go back to sleep. I promise, I'll be right back.'

He looked resigned but unhappy, and she sprinted out, hoping he wouldn't fall into asleep in the meantime.

She returned with a tray, and his gaze snapped to hers as the door opened. She set it down, grabbed her gloves and adjusted a few pillows, hefted him rather painfully into a sitting-up position. He couldn't help much.

He grumbled when she made to feed him, gave a rather tired growl, and he grabbed the spoon, fisted it to feed himself a few grim mouthfuls and fell back against the pillows, turned his face to the wall. That's-right-I-reject-you posture.

She gave a short laugh; well, he'd never made a good patient. She picked up the spoon, stirred it round the soup a few times, and swiped off the drop on the bottom of the spoon. He was watching her now, as she'd hoped, the fiddling attracting him, and she regarded him, considering how his touching her hadn't done what he'd wanted, it seemed, and it hadn't brought them any closer to each other. He looked miserable, a little sorry for himself and a lot sorry about her, and just this moment, she was sorry, too. She cared about him, and she hadn't been showing it lately.

She softened her expression and rubbed the spoon against the lip of the bowl again and raised it to his lips. He accepted it. She fed him the rest of the bowl, deliberately, slowly, and he watched her with that unfathomable expression the entire time.

When he was done, she set the tray aside and took the cup. 'Tea?' she asked softly, her voice a bit rusty. He made no motion, following her movements, so she leaned forward gradually, giving him time to reject it, and clasped the back of his head, and supported him while he drank.

'Rest,' she told him, sitting down into her chair, and his gaze didn't falter. 'I'll stay this time,' she promised, settling in. He tested her for another minute before closing his eyes.

He made up for his docility with crankiness that evening. She offered to make him a sandwich, and he groused about how it was made and what was on it.

'It's bland,' he complained, chewing it rather viciously. The effect was ruined when he grew tired, paused with a hunk still in his cheek, and had to resume more slowly.

'It's supposed to be bland. You don't eat spicy foods when you're recovering,' she explained patiently, determined not to let him irritate her.

'You smell,' he informed her, his nose twitching, conserving energy between bites.

She laughed at that. 'Well, someone didn't want me to go anywhere. So I didn't get a chance to take a shower yet.' She leaned back in the chair, rested her feet on the bed. 'Do I have your permission to take one? Cap'n?' she asked mockingly.

He grunted and took another bite.

'I'm gonna take one after you're finished with that.' And at his look, 'Hey, if you're well enough to bait me, you're well enough to do without me while I shower.'

He ripped off another bite and turned away, and she laughed.

'Feeling like hell is the first step towards recovery,' she informed him and took his plate. 'Anything else?' He didn't respond, and he looked cutely sulky there, ignoring her, so she traced a gloved hand across his hair. 'I'll be back, sugar,' and winked.

She returned, wearing long-sleeved pajamas, gloves, and socks, blown-dry hair. She sighed and sank onto the bed next to him, and he lifted a hand enough to touch her white streak as she curled up to him.


	8. Maybe

VIII: MAYBE

He was okay the next day. He got up. He gruffed and groaned a bit, but he was okay. And he was silent and brooding, threw her a few dark looks, but largely ignored her. Ok, then. She threw him amused looks, and ignored him back.

They emerged, the both of them, to find the world-turned-upside-down. Or at least gone mad.

Camera crews on the school lawn. Xavier trying to get them moved off school property, and thank God they'd cultivated positive relationships with local authorities these past few years. Jubilee back in Xavier's office again, snipping at the new assistant, fielding phone calls from Congressman, reporters, members of the press, colleagues, professors, the ACLU.

The mission, the lab. It had been a big one, from what she could piece together, newscasts, newspapers. Three hundred-odd mutants, nearly 100 humans, a huge facility, over 80 guards, and, in its heyday, over 20 scientists. But the head scientist had quit nearly ten years ago, and only three of the twenty were listed on the payroll this year.

After the bust of the smaller Ohio facility, the forces had panicked, been ordered to drop the program and withdraw. So, they'd decamped, moved out, leaving ten or so guards behind. And the strangeness of it had piqued the interest of some in the local community, news had leaked, whispers had gotten to Xavier.

When the team, headed by Logan and Storm, had arrived, bringing foul weather and strange electrical disturbances with it, the remaining guards had fled. And the X-men had simply walked in, claimed the space…and called the police, the hospitals. The media.

Conditions there were much worse. The emphasis wasn't on science (or hadn't been for a long while) but incarceration with torture thrown in for kicks. There was a lot of documentation, videos, pictures, witnesses. And, of course, just the facilities, the lack of amenities, the conditions of the cells, of the prisoners, was enough. Did Jubilee's redacted files even need to see the light of day? Historians might want them, but it hardly seemed necessary now.

Mutant rallies. Calls for amendments, legislation, independent investigations, many, many lawsuits. In a sad and sick way, it was the best thing to happen for the mutant cause.

And Xavier, head and chair in the spotlight as the spokesman for mutantkind, was at the forefront of this new effort, was awash with offers, publicity, opportunities. Rogue wondered, wryly, what Magneto thought now.

The school was, naturally, disrupted by the development. Classes were still in session, but the students were highly distracted, excited, barely contained. Phone calls poured in, from family members, friends, from around the country. A few of the brasher students had gone out on the lawn to the cameras, had given very aggressive and ignorant-sounding statements to the press. The senior class had even gone out and picketed (no one) on the lawn, a few hastily scribbled (and not clever) slogans on taped-together pieces of paper. Ah, but only think of the memories.

Logan had classes to teach, all the teachers did, but Rogue could help out, deemed capable, with her healed leg, of handling it. She updated the web site quickly, took orders from Commander Jubes in the office, found herself working as a P.A., booking dates and logging calls and contact numbers for Xavier all morning long.

It was such a strange and exhilarating day. She'd caught sight of Ted Koppel, square head, boyish curls and all, in their hallowed halls, and she'd just booked Xavier for a show on Larry King. 'Of suspender fame,' Jubilee had trilled, before rounding on the new girl, ripping her a new one for improper cross-referencing. 'Jubes!' Rogue had expostulated, and Jubes had just grinned.

She saw Xavier zipping down the hall, and she'd never known him to nip about like that: nearly ran a student over, nearly grinned when that happened, too. Hank whistled, trotted nimbly on his toes. Storm was wound tight, smiling worriedly, sometimes tiredly, but smiling, and Rogue'd seen Remy steal a kiss—whirl in, press in, dart away with those waggling brows—to Storm's startled blush.

Jean she'd only seen once; head-down, striding stiltedly down the hall, Xavier at her side, and, strangely, Scott just behind. They'd none of them looked very happy, but then, she'd expected stress. She hadn't expected Scott's brief touch to Jean's back, and Jean's…acquiescence? A nod, a wave of her hand in response, certainly not rejection. Hmm, what had happened there?

Everyone was in the kind of good and bad mood that came from too much stress and too much excitement. And when Rogue had gone back to their room that night, skipped in, pushed back her mussed hair, exhausted, she'd thrown her arms around Logan and exclaimed, 'Oh. My. GOD. I know it's terrible, but…Could you believe what happened today?'

And even though he'd been a little reticent and closed and gruff when she came in, even though he looked fatigued and careworn, he'd smiled, really, genuinely, hugged her and twirled her round, and she'd loved him in that moment, laughing delightedly.

And he certainly didn't seem to mind either when she pounced on him, had eager, energetic, excited, exhausting sex with him. Yeah…she loved that part, too.

By week's end, it was largely just exhausting. The press had decamped, the interviews were half-over, and it became clear, in the slog, in the aftermath, just how much work lay ahead of them.

Interviews. Talking points. Media blitz. Conferring with senior lawmakers, lawyers. Writing draft legislation. Lobbyists, political ads. Funding of law suits. Xavier's new book deal.

Luckily, Xavier was better connected than Rogue thought.

The school itself was going through painful changes, too. Conservatives, not without cause, were still very concerned about mutants and their powers, and Xavier felt that the school, and others like it, had to be at the forefront of this fight, assuaging fears and inculcating feelings of responsibility and stewardship in (potentially) dangerous mutants. But this put the school in the tricky position of needing as much credibility and trust as mutants were not gaining from the community.

And…there had actually been a bit of an incident, call it the illustrative moment, a few days before. The cameras had still been camped out on the lawn, then, just outside school grounds, and a group of reporters had turned to some loitering, attention-hungry students: 'Do you have a statement to make about mutants?'

'Yeah! Mutants are people, too. And we—I have the right to be free!' Chorus of yells in agreement.

'I can shapeshift. And I'm not gonna hide!' Yeah! 'I can change color!' Woah!

'I have the freedom! I have the power!' None of them old enough to know He-Man, but it was every bit as corny. And the reporter was marveling over Harold's surprising green thumb, which, applied to an acorn in excitement, had sprouted a 20-foot sapling.

When 'That's nothing!', 'See what I can do!' erupted from several students at once: Zoey demonstrated her ability to concentrate high temperatures to specific objects, setting the new sapling on fire, and then melting a few people's watches, buttons, the reporter's zipper, and Daniel clapped at a frequency that caused rain droplets in the clouds above to tremble and fall (neatly extinguishing the sapling), and Chen rumbled the earth below, gave it a bit of a mischievious shake. Chaos before the cameras until—

'STOP!' and Xavier had been there, somehow mighty in his wheelchair, the students' suspended motions and frozen expressions. 'Now you are going to stay there,' Xavier intoned grimly, 'until you've thought about what you've done. You all know better. This does not become you.' And he'd very solicitously inquired after the shaken reporters and cameramen, a little impromptu interview with the frozen tableau behind, the only movement from the watchful, wide eyes of the immobile senior class.

After some chatter, 'Yes, yes, I've immobilized them. They're fine, just ignore them,' and some discussion of mutant issues, Xavier had finally turned a sharp-quarter turn to the group, asked 'Are you ready to apologize now?' And one-by-one he'd released the students so they could, sheepishly, bashfully.

The press ate it up; it was played on every cable news station, every nightly news broadcast, even a few senate hearings. It was one of the most watched clips on You-Tube. It was lampooned on the Daily Show.

But the incident proved a lightning rod: Liberals pointed to how easily the mutant situation could be contained, focused on 'schools', education. Conservatives loved Xavier but also loved the demonstration of how dangerous mutants could be. Libertarians warned that Xavier was just as dangerous.

So Xavier was privately grieved about the entire thing, very sensitive to bad press, and defensive, ready to focus attention on something other than the school. Jubilee had remarked what a bear he was in the office.

At the weekly strategy meeting that Saturday (the first, to Rogue's knowledge, held since the Ohio mission), Xavier wanted to talk about something new, the new agenda, the Important IMMediate political strategy. Jean and Scott and Ororo and Logan and Hank and Xavier and Rogue.

Xavier wanted to talk…about the labs and going public.

The Senate hearings were the week following, the specific evidence, the explicit and graphic (hopefully shocking) evidence was to be revealed.

'We have one chance, THE chance,' Xavier spoke with suppressed excitement. 'The public is already beginning to move on to concerns about mutant powers and stewardship. Don't forget that the MRA is already written—passed by the House. We must redirect the conversation, make them face the horrors their government has done, make them agitate so that it will never happen again.'

On and on in this gripping vein, and Rogue expected it (Xavier could stump speech at the drop of a hat now—plenty of practice this week, perhaps natural inclination?), but was prodded to wakefulness by '…and Jean, of course, shall testify, shall be the face and voice of this injustice, shall be the call-to-arms that every mutant, every human is looking for.'

Not expected—when had Jean agreed to that?—and she snapped round to Jean, frowned over the weary air, dutiful profile. Not her idea? Looking around—Theirs. Damn it! Where was Jubilee? Back to this again.

''Scuse me, sorry,' Rogue inserted tremulously, glancing side-to-side. 'But—Jean is going to testify at the Senate trials? Was that a meeting I missed?'

'It's already been decided, Rogue,' the Professor asserted. 'Jean will put a face to the experimentation going on at the labs, a highly-articulate face, already well-known to its audience.' Jean shifted in her seat, managing a reasonably resolute expression.

Rogue leaned forward, darted looks round the table, and oddly, no one would look at her. Who had decided, and had she been the last to know? She cleared her throat. 'Decided? Well, I think it may be a mistake. We shouldn't ask this of her.'

'She's already agreed to it,' the Professor calmly explained, though she could detect a hint of irritation. Rogue saw Scott reach round to touch the back of Jean's chair. All those personal meetings with Xavier, Scott's little touches all week. 'Putting aside your personal feelings on the subject, the idea is a good one.'

'I don't see why,' Rogue countered, hiding the trembling, 'I think it's a bad idea for a whole bunch of reasons,' And she forced herself not to react, not to take it too heatedly, to remove Jean from the equation.

'You're not considering what an opportunity we have with her, Rogue,' the Professor pressed, exchanging significant glances to his right and left. He templed his hands on the table. 'You're not considering what we can accomplish when we can speak out from such a position of authority.'

'Yes, but there are others—many others—and a lot of evidence,' Rogue continued, bracing herself.

Xavier's face was frozen into an implacable, set look. 'Jean is much more,' he insisted. 'She was known before this happened, has a clean record. Jean's experiences will show the degree to which the government violated the rights of its citizens.'

Rogue swallowed, glancing round. 'But because she's well-known, there will be more questions, the full story, things we don't want—' She tripped over herself, thinking of how much they couldn't control, how much she couldn't.

'We likely can't hide how Jean returned to us, Rogue. So we're using her return to our advantage, to the advantage of all mutantkind.' The Professor paused, and Logan, for the first time since she'd spoken out, fixed his gaze on her from several seats down, an understanding but firm one that warned 'Let it go'. She didn't know if she could. Nor, slanting a look at Jean, wearily waiting until this was decided, did she think she necessarily should.

'We buried Jean,' the Professor continued, and Rogue was shocked at the casualness of it. Jean didn't react, but she saw Scott grimace and Storm stiffen. 'Many know that; and many more know she came back. We can't hide that. How else do you suggest we explain that?'

'You're making it trickier to explain by staging her front and center. And easier to explain that than Alkali Lake, or how we helped her escape.'

'That's a chance we'll have to take,' the Professor declared, gimlet-eyed.

Rogue harrumphed in frustration, at how dense he was, how short-sighted. And glancing around, everyone else was goddamn stupid, too. There was a collective shift at the table, as if the team members were settling in, settling down, convinced, or willing to be. The Professor was nodding firmly, eyeing up and down the table. Shit.

'We agreed to keep the identities of the mutants anonymous,' Rogue tried another tack, a little desperate now.

'Rogue,' Jean called softly, and Rogue was halted, turning to Jean, searching her eyes, trying to grasp whether she did have it wrong, whether this was the best thing for everyone. But what she saw—pallor, dark circles, weary air, and…the desire for peace, not justice—decided her.

'NO,' she flashed to the rest of the group, 'We agreed on anonymity for a reason. It was so each mutant could decide how to handle what happened.'

'She has decided. You're interrupting her,' the Professor rebuked, his accent deepening. He was nearly, Rogue thought searingly, wagging a finger at her.

'I'm—she's letting you decide. Look at her,'—Rogue pointed—'She just got back. You want her to confess to this publicly so you can have your news cycle?!'

'She is not the first to do so,' the Professor dismissed, pushing back from the table. 'Many people come forward like this, to call attention to injustice, to be the face for a cause.'

'It's not the same,' Rogue stressed, looking round the table at their closed faces, and she swept a hand in the air. 'They chose it, their idea, and not after a few weeks but whenever it was that they'd dealt with all their shit. Jean's not even comfortable with us knowing.'

Rogue was dimly aware of Scott growing more tense, more withdrawn, but Jean, all she looked was watchful. 'And now you're asking that the world know, that she play the victim again and again. In front of the senators she used to know, the people she used to lobby. Everyone! For all time, everyone she ever meets. All so she can be your face, your symbol. You're asking her to be a victim as her job.'

Rogue darted glances round the table, and she repeated, maybe a tad moronically, but… 'It's not the same. It's not the same.' Could they not see that? Well, most of them weren't looking at her. Logan was rigid, staring frozenly at the wall, and Xavier looked lurid, angry, but also unsure. Well, she was—sure.

'If Jean really wanted to do this,' she finished, tilting her chin down, 'if she hadn't just agreed for your sakes, she would have stopped me.' She was sure about that, anyway. She eyed the group, trembling a bit, drew herself up, focused. She rose, more like rocketed, and slid her chair in with a click. 'I'm sorry, Jean,' she nodded gravely, and she left.

The door shut behind her with a mighty whoosh, and she walked out with unsteady legs, but she hoped she was right. She hoped she had made a difference. She hoped Jean would do…whatever she wanted.

She worked out. She made a tasteless meal, added jalapeno to spice it up, and had to throw the rest away.

She sulked, she knew.

She did laundry. Already in shitty mood, why not take advantage?

She watched fuzzy showtunes in the laundry room, but they were so bad, she ended up staring at the dryer.

'Where were you?' he called from the bed, a stupid question, as far as she could see. She hefted up the laundry basket mockingly, rolled her eyes at him. She let the door slam, then slammed her chest-of-drawers, too, because she needed the extra satisfaction.

'So what was that earlier?' he asked, watching her put away her clothes.

'I'm not in a very good mood,' she warned, again she figured pretty self-evidently; she supposed if she were exploring her darker motivations, she'd answer that it would absolve her of responsibility should he provoke her. Please, provoke her.

When she turned round, he had an eyebrow quirked at her, but he just raised the bedclothes in a motion to get in. Her lips parted—he didn't want a fight?—but he just waited, and she grew absurdly peeved that he was being so understanding now. She stuck out a hip, a lip.

'C'mere,' he murmured, and she realized petulantly that it was what she wanted. So she went and she burrowed into him like a child, and he sighed, and she sighed, and she felt a kiss brush her hair.

She had thought that she'd just go to sleep, that she'd just let herself be comforted, but she didn't and she wasn't. After about ten minutes of feeling as wide awake as ever, she kicked out a bit restlessly, and confessed a bit defensively, 'I wanted to make sure it was what she wanted, not just what she was letting happen.'

Logan tugged on her hair a bit to get her to look up at him, and she did, resting her chin on his chest. 'Letting happen?' he parroted, his brows drawn together. He seemed…touchy about this for some reason, his hands coming up to hold her shoulders in position. But if he thought they were going to fight now, it was ten minutes too late for her to want one.

'Look, Logan, maybe she will come round, and maybe she will agree to it do it in the end. Maybe she still said she would after I left, I don't know…maybe I was outta line.' She just threw a bunch of those maybes out there, hoping one of them would do the trick.

He ran one hand down her back and up again. 'The meeting pretty much broke up after you left,' he explained, and there was a pause as he stroked a hand down a strand of her hair, then heavily, 'But she's not going to do it.'

She…hadn't meant any of those maybes, but maybe Logan—it meant more than she realized. She tucked her chin down, turned away, because she wasn't sorry, and she didn't care what Xavier or Scott or…though she was suddenly tearing up, almost suppressing a sob. She worked at keeping it back, but she couldn't hide the reaction from him when he forced her to turn back to him, applying pressure with a lock to her face. 'What?'

She shook her head with a snort, shook away the tears. 'Just…' Just reaction, just stress, just… 'I'm glad,' she finished.

He didn't look glad. 'Why?' his voice cracked.

At another time, she would have had a lot of fun teasing him about that—hey, what was so wrong with glad? But this wasn't teasing time, and she was wrung out. She rattled out a laugh. 'I haven't talked to Jean much, but she reminded me…she seemed like she was looking for something to go with, a way to move on.' She sighed. 'I just thought, with this, that it was important she want to for herself, that she make the choice.'

His hand froze, and his face froze over. She belatedly realized that he might have been one of the pushers. 'Logan, you didn't—you all probably didn't mean to.' She placed a careful hand to his whiskers, pressed to get him to look at her, this time. 'You were thinking of what was best politically, and I—could only think…how much it sucked to be Jean.'

Both his hands traveled down and settled in the slope of her back, and they squeezed, a bit uncomfortably, and she peered up at him, saw his dry swallow, and decided to just ask. 'You gonna tell me why you're so upset now?'

He hesitated, then shook his head, gruffed, 'Not upset.'

She took his measure: he looked upset, shadowed eyes, furrowed brow, drawn mouth, and she decided, as she swallowed the rising sob in her throat again, she decided that, no, she wasn't going to let it drop. 'Guilty, then?' she persisted, trembling a little. 'Mad at me? Disappointed? Irritated? Concerned? Anxious? What?' His mouth twisted.

She thumped his chest. 'You seriously annoy me,' she asserted. 'This is where we go wrong. Every time. Ok? Just tell me. I can take it.'

He hesitated again, and it made her wonder if she actually could. Maybe this was the thing he couldn't tell her, that this was about Jean, about Scott, about something he wasn't ready to say. So she was very relieved, but also puzzled when he said, 'I'm worried that you can't turn your skin off.'

She sucked in her lower lip, nibbled it. 'You are not.'

'Yes. I am, Rogue.' He sounded certain, and it was his most serious face.

She brushed that aside. 'No, I mean: Fine, worry, me, too. But that's not what you were upset about.' It didn't sound right, not here.

He tipped her over suddenly, as he turned onto his side, a loose arm at her waist, and their heads nearly even now. But she knew him, and he was ducking the question, so she waited. Why were they so bad at this lately?

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. 'Logan, whatever it is, it can't be that bad,' she assured him, and when she caught his guarded gaze, thoughts flashed, and she added, defeated, 'Or even if it is, I'd rather know. Ok?'

Here it comes. How bad is bad?

His face gave her no clue. 'Did I—' he growled, inching away a bit. 'Was it me?'

She peered forward uncomprehendingly. 'Was what you?' And goddamnit, if he was going to clam up on her again…

His face grew harder, his voice. 'Your skin.'

'My skin?' His expression didn't alter. 'It won't turn off, but—I don't know what makes you think—no. It doesn't have anything to do with you.' She had no idea why he would think it would.

'No?' he asked in a lighter tone, swallowed, sniffed her a little.

'Is that what you were upset about?' she huffed in disbelief. His expression was clearer, though a little shrewd, calculating.

His hand skimmed her body, and she wondered for a moment if he was seeking confirmation through contact or something…until he paused significantly at the top button of her pajamas 'So, it won't matter if I…touch a little?' he damn-near purred.

'You want to have sex now?' she exclaimed. He quirked an eyebrow. 'It's gonna take some persuasion,' she told him honestly; I mean, hey, she was tired.

'I think I can be…persuasive,' he growled, and she laughed her first genuine laugh of the day. And he was very persuasive.


	9. Not Quite History

**IX: NOT QUITE HISTORY**

Lights. Bright lights. White—no, blue. Swimming before her, and faces, and she was nauseous and strangely hairy and restrained, and—No! They were cutting into her, her leg, her bones. The whine of the saw, stench, the acrid smoke of adamantium, the tang of blood and salt and sweat and…almost didn't feel the needle in her arm, the syringe.

FUCK! More pain—searing pain—than she'd ever felt before, and she felt her stomach heaving, dry heaves, God—there was nothing left, and then…

Bolt upright in bed, the horror of the claws coming out, painful, but a better pain than before, but heavy, the cruel suck as they sliced through skin and bone, and—

Face to face with herself, with Marie, wide-eyed and gasping, and claws right through her, and oh, God, killed Marie, kill-killed Marie, ohmygodkid, I'm so sorry, so—Marie—so sorry, and retract the claws.

She falls and collapses, rolls to the side, and the streak is gone, and the hair is red, and it's Jean, fucking Jean that I've killed, and oh Christ, this better be a dream.

Fuck.

She was panting and shaking and her heart rate was far too fast, and she slipped out of bed, tripped out, and closed the bathroom door and sat on the lip of the tub.

Fuck, she was trembling.

She peeled off her gloves, washed her face with cold water, got cold, switched the tap to warm. Her face was too white, her eyes too dark in the mirror. Calm down. It was just a dream.

She had thought she was ok. She had thought they were ok. She was, they were; just a dream. They had been better—since the mission, since talking, since touching, since…fucking again. The old affection back again, she loved, small touches.

God, jealousy was a bitch. She was a bitch; there was a cold, insensitive, mean and small part inside of her, and her subconscious had just told her so. And maybe it wasn't so small—sizewise.

The dream—Rogue had had the dream before, when she'd first touched Logan, for a few months after the Statue of Liberty debacle, occasionally afterwards, sometimes later when Logan had touched her again. She wasn't a big fan—downright creepy to kill yourself—but she could take it, all of the fear ebbed away as soon as she awoke, because it wasn't her fear, her dream, her memories.

But that one alteration at the end. She shuddered.

'Rogue?' His voice came out low and taut, accompanied by short raps.

'I'm just—' and she heard the door open, screwed her eyes shut, hand covering them, because she couldn't look at him now, yet. She was breathing shallowly still. She could feel him towering above her.

'Was it—?' he grated out, and then even harder, 'Marie?' Poor guy was always so tense when he thought he'd caused it.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat, made a tiny tilt of her head. 'No, sugar, this one's all me.'

Somehow he had always known, when she had her nightmares, his, and she had always really liked his approach of just holding her, stroking her when it happened. But this time, as she was pulled to her feet and soothingly held, and her eyes were still shut, face buried in his chest, in his shirt, she didn't know if it would be enough. Nope—tears running down her face quietly, and more seeping past the blockage in her throat, ready to bust out given half a chance—it was not enough.

'Marie.' So anxious, so displeased, so upset. 'Tell me about it.' Small, somewhat clumsy strokes to her hair.

'Logan, I—I' mouth open and wet, too wet, panting, and hot face, and she could feel how the tears were going full body now, heaving, and gulp—here came the sob. Sobbing, she was sobbing now on all over his shirt. She'd never enjoyed this scene in a romance novel.

Her sobs were high and unattractive and wailing. Howls, staccato bursts, hiccups, and more howls. Yes, like that, and the thought that she would laugh at herself another time made her sadly more depressed then. Pull yourself together. Smear away tears, smear away—just all the moisture. Cut down on the noise at least, and she screwed her fingers into his shirt to keep hanging on, and his arms around her tightened, and that helped, too.

Because it was him and it was Logan and it was the bathroom and that was what she wanted. And she realized that that was what she would always want in all bathrooms and all times forever. That sounded a little hysterical, but…ok, cry some more.

She loved him, she realized, snuffling. And if she couldn't have him, she was going to be devastated, and there was no fooling herself about that. No news that. And she was jealous—again not news. But he had held her while she was crying and sobbing in the bathroom, splotchy and overhot and poison skin in the middle of the night, and that had to count for something. And even if it didn't—

'Logan, I—' it was quavery, breathy, and she caught a glimpse of his concerned face, soft as it only was at night, when she could see, 'Th-thank you.'

'Marie,' he groaned.

'Thank you,' she repeated because she wanted to say something more, clutching him tighter, scrunching up her drying eyes and saying it again. 'Thank you.'

He growled something, tiny whine, and she hoped he thought it was ok, enough, not too much. She pressed into him, snuggled until she felt drained instead of achy; then she scrubbed her face with a rough hand, and looked up at him. When she placed a light palm on his chest, he backed up a step, hands falling away.

'Are you ok?' he asked with rough concern.

'Most of me,' small smile for him. God, he was so cute, getting wrinkles between his brows because he frowned so much, was frowning now, but cute with it. His hair, which suited him, but which she'd never been able to believe he actually styled, except he must have to. And his mutton chops, which hadn't been popular since the corset, and eyes, the eyebrows that had so much cockiness to them at times, the eyes so much sparkle and mischief, dark to light, looking worriedly at her now. That slit of a mouth, so mobile, so much character. His strong arms, taut now, and capable shoulders, and God that hard stomach, and that hard—bulge in his pants?

Oh. Hadn't noticed that before. Well, she could take care of that for him, could totally go with that, much better end to the—she was becoming a real fan of that idea. She licked her lips, ran a soft hand down his shirt and chest, flicked over a nipple, trailed down his stomach, down farther…

'Marie,' he commanded, grabbed her wrist. Did he want to start someplace else? But when she looked up, his brows had contracted from worried to scolding. 'Stop,' and he shook her a little.

'Oh,' she responded, swallowed, couldn't look up. 'Ok.'

He cupped her head, tilted her up to him, expression serious. 'Just not now. Ok?'

And she nodded ok, because she wasn't going to cry again. And she wasn't a guy, didn't know. And she knew she was not at her attractive best right now—middle of the night, layers, skin, and sobbing. And she didn't know how that…worked precisely, despite his many demonstrations. And maybe it had something to do with her and maybe it didn't.

'Are you ok?' he asked again, tracing her eyebrow carefully with a large thumb.

'Yes,' she got out tightly, maybe a touch too high.

His mouth firmed. 'You're not.'

'I'm ok,' she managed more creditably.

He studied her some more. 'Come to bed,' he pleaded wearily, then tacked on, as if needing the specifics. 'Lie down with me. Just lie down.'

She nodded, and because she couldn't help it, touched a hand to his chest, then ducked past him out of the bathroom. And with the light out as he followed, it was too dark for her to see, and he shepherded her to the bed, and settled them on their sides facing each other, and enfolded her in his arms.

'It's alright,' he stroked a smooth, warm stroke up her back. 'You're safe.' It was still so strange to her that he thought to say that first.

But if he was too sweet, she'd start to cry again. She hugged him. 'What would I do without you?' she asked fiercely, froze—realized what she'd said. Her head shot up, to study him, couldn't see in the darkness, but he had frozen, too. 'Logan, just—thank you. For everything.' She didn't mean to make it sound like goodbye; she just wanted to be clear.

'Marie,' a little bit of a rebuke, and he smoothed back the hair from her face carefully, a move she wouldn't have tried with their faces, his hand and arm and bare shoulder in such close proximity. 'Shhh, I've gotcha, go to sleep.' And she nodded and tried and did.

She tried to show him in the next days that she was ok. That she was ok, and that she loved him, without, you know, actually saying it. She wanted to love him, not pressure, not annoy him, or make it harder for him—just love him, appreciate him, show him how…Logan he was.

He was a little distant, but she got him to smile when she smiled—a little sadly. When she laughed, he would touch her hair. She asked if he was ok, he said yes.

He was not wholly convincing. She supposed she may not have been either.

The weekly strategy meeting came round—Saturday again—and Rogue hadn't actually spoken with Xavier since the previous meeting. She figured Xavier was the least of her worries, first of all, and when she'd last seen him, he'd been honest-to-God pissed, not just disappointed: she'd wanted to give him space. And he was busy. Also she forgot. She was making excuses, but, yeah, maybe leaving their next encounter until the weekly meeting hadn't been her wisest decision.

Worst case scenario, she might be asked to withdraw from the committee—'professional disagreement'. That was not the end of the world. Her only qualm, on entering, was that it might make things difficult for Logan, and she felt immediately guilty, because she should have considered that before.

She had encountered every one of the other X-men in the course of the week, though. Hank had acted as though no outburst had occurred—'Morning, Rogue,' he'd greeted, chipper, dapper, humming some opera under his breath. Storm, distractedly happy, had lunched with her one day, discussing—certainly not Remy—but had sobered briefly near the end, 'And Rogue, don't worry about the meeting. That's what you're there for.' A smile crept in, burst forth—Ororo couldn't help it—a chat, a pat, and gone.

And then, there had been an awkward but thankfully brief hallway run-in with Scott and Jean, her and Logan. Uncomfortable silence, and Rogue, guarded and slouched and the shortest one there, felt everyone's eyes on her.

Scott had been the first to move. 'Rogue,' and with the air of a man under obligation, he'd stuck out a hand, too heartfelt, 'Thanks.'

It had felt altogether like the wrong thing to be getting thanks for, and her initial instinct had been to reject it, reject the handshake, even, but she'd caught Logan's glance, his slight concern, and she'd realized how stupid that would be. Better to brush it off. 'Y'Welcome,' and she'd braved a look at Jean then, saw the look of acknowledgment, felt more embarrassed and ashamed about it. 'It wasn't—I'm just glad.' Small smile from Jean, clasp and squeeze of the shoulder from Scott, and they'd parted ways.

She'd turned, watched them go— Jean and Scott walking down the halls again. They walked together, maybe not like lovers yet, but like they'd found each other again…good for them—found Logan watching her watch them. Ruminating, weighing her up, confirming what was already suspected. Fatalistic. And there was space between them, as there hadn't been between Jean and Scott.

And Rogue finally admitted that Jean had nothing to do with it. Logan might have loved her, mourned her, might still find her attractive, might yet make love to her. But this distance, their estrangement—it had nothing to do with her, everything to do with them.

Maybe there was a reason they'd never really talked. Maybe there was a reason she'd never felt…really secure. Maybe there was a reason she couldn't say the words to him, why he'd never said the words to her. Maybe in their friendship, this relationship, they'd only ever be able to sustain those two years together, under those particular circumstances. Maybe that was all she got.

She…didn't really mean any of those maybes—wouldn't, not if it was up to her. But it wasn't, entirely. Logan's resigned expression, little sad.

'Hey,' barely audible, and she approached tentatively, just touched his chest. His head drooped, too, nose just above her head, and a finger just touching her hair.

'I'm ok,' she murmured. 'You ok?'

She finally gazed up, and he then assured, 'I'm ok.'

And she'd wordlessly nodded, and they'd been interrupted by the buzz of growing chatter and clatter, the volley, doors slapped open, passing period, and Logan had had to go, end of lunch, classes.

And now weekly meeting and Xavier, and she was oddly detached, she didn't much care what happened here, actually.

Xavier was intent on moving forward, though; not a word about last meeting, Rogue or Jean. He stuck close to the agenda: Senate hearings, private investigations, Jubilee's proposed list of talking points, student teaching and teaching candidates for next year…Rogue wasn't really paying attention. But she figured that was alright, since she should probably ease back in with the opinions anyway.

The meeting was conducted professionally, and it broke up quickly, everyone rising with their papers and agendas and tasks, and Rogue rose, too, to do…she didn't know what. She hadn't been assigned anything, again. Well, escaping notice had been the goal after all. And then—

'Rogue, stay a moment, won't you?' A dressing down in private. How considerate, how Xavier. Logan was settling down, staying, too; that was unnecessary. And though she didn't really mind, she was surprised Xavier didn't. Another surprise was Scott, hesitating on his way out the door; Rogue saw Logan wave him away.

But she didn't really need anyone's protection here. She shrugged, eyed Xavier nonchalantly, as the rest filed out, peeked a look at Logan. She had expected that staying meant that Logan was in protective mode, but he wouldn't look at her, wasn't really looking at Xavier, come to that. She frowned.

'Rogue,' and Xavier smiled, the genial smile. 'You and I may disagree, but there's no reason for hard feelings, I believe.' Rogue murmured something suitable, and Xavier continued. 'The fact that you and I disagree, have disagreed, is one of the reasons you're a sitting member of the Strategy committee. If everyone agreed—' he lifted a hand—'there'd be no point in a meeting.'

Rogue nodded, puzzled but willing to be agreeable. And Xavier was extra-talkative today. She threw a bemused glance to Logan, who was steadfastly silent.

'And you're a very valuable member of the team,' Xavier complimented smoothly, then too fatuously, 'The X-men owe you a debt of gratitude, for all your services.' Ah, maybe this was the break-up line after all. 'But it may be time that we stand back and evaluate where we all stand. What we want for ourselves and what we want from each other.' Yes, there it was.

'So what do you want?' Rogue asked calmly. Honestly, Xavier could build up like no one else; she turned to Logan in amusement, and he was curiously slack, meditatively eyeing the table, and that was…odd.

'Rogue,' and Xavier grew serious, rested his palms on the table. 'Things have altered since you made your commitment to the X-men. You were injured on a mission for us, and while that's healed, you've also lost control of your skin, perhaps permanently. Naturally, this changes our assessment of the risk we are asking you to take.'

She was paying attention now, careful attention, but she couldn't—he was talking around things. 'What does that mean?'

'Rogue, I no longer feel comfortable asking you to go out on missions for us, if this—' he gestured to her gloves, and she couldn't help the flinch—'is the result.'

'Are you saying that my skin changes my status here?' She darted a glance to Logan, immovable, unresponsive Logan. It wasn't like she wanted him to jump in, but…why wasn't he responding?

'It shows us,' Xavier corrected, 'how much we were taking you for granted.'

'It doesn't feel—' Rogue shook her head in bewilderment, some frustration—'like you are taking me for granted.' She took a moment to collect herself, read him. 'It feels like you're not giving me anything to do.'

'You're between projects,' Xavier agreed steadily. 'You've recovered from your last mission. That makes it a good time to discuss your position here.'

Bigger than the Strategy committee then. Bigger than missions. And who knew that skin could be such a big deal? Well, fuck, when was it not? But she'd listen. 'Just what do you see as my position then?' she spoke carefully, evenly. She maintained eye contact.

'Rogue,' the Professor smiled paternally. 'You've been with us two years now, helped out for longer than that. We appreciate it.' He sobered, and Rogue tensed, because suddenly this seemed like a really big fucking deal. 'But now you should think about you, your future, what you want. You should consider whether continuing on here and staying with the X-men… is actually right for you.'

And Logan stirred then, met her eyes, significant look, and…she knew—couldn't look away.

'You have your whole life ahead of you, Rogue,' she heard Xavier say. 'You could go back to college, try another line of work.' The patronizing tone didn't smart at all now. 'I'd like to give you an opportunity to choose another way.'

She was trembling, heart pounding, mouth dry, staring at Logan. How could he do this to her? Again, through a third party. Something so big and not—not mention it. And then to stay, stay to witness, calm and collected and staring her down.

Her heart was too loud, but she turned willfully to Xavier. 'Are you firing me?' she asked bluntly.

'No,' the Professor answered, quickly. 'We'd be happy to have you, if that's what you decide. You are a valuable member of the team.'

'I see.' She gritted her teeth, stood, and held out a hand. 'Well, thank you, Professor. You've given me a lot to think about.'

Xavier gripped her gloved hand in his, paused a moment, meaningful look. 'Thank you, Rogue.' Firm shake, and Rogue gave a firm nod in return, swept out without a glance at Logan.

Didn't mean she couldn't hear him behind her, mumbled word to Xavier, booted tread an appropriate distance behind.

She headed outdoors. She wasn't sure if he was smart or not to follow.

The grass was springy, few birds twittering, him behind her, his measured steps, a twig snapped, she snapped.

'YOU. FUCKING. BASTARD,' punctuated by hard, satisfying thumps to his chest, he half-blocked them, and it felt good, so good, to let that out. 'How could you do that to me? How could you? Again?' She was heaving a few feet away, and his resigned air, collected expression were just too much, she lashed out again, forgetting all her training. 'Go to fucking XAVIER, and not me?! God DAMN it, Logan! How could you DO that?!'

'Rogue,' he rebuked, palms out defensively, making a grab for her wrists.

'Back OFF, Logan,' she cried, shaking him off. 'I can't talk to you right now.' She whirled away—dumb, very dumb idea for him to follow, and she was trembling, shaking, and maybe needed a little or a lot of space right now.

God. She knew—she'd seen. He'd been acting funny all week, but she'd never—how could he…

She heard his shuffle of feet, enraged her all over again. 'So, what, you think I should leave then, quit the X-men?' she taunted, threw over her shoulder at him. Maybe she needed some answers, followed by space.

He didn't answer, and she gritted her teeth, flipped to glare at him, and he was eyeing her carefully, measuringly, 'If that's what you want,' he replied softly.

She marched up to him. 'What kind,' she seethed, 'of fucking answer is that?'

He was holding himself back, but she thought she could detect regret. 'You could go to college again. You could travel. You could leave this place, live a more normal life.' Oh, God, she might start crying in a minute, needed some distance. 'You're so young, Marie,' he said achingly.

Too much, backing away. 'It's a little late to make my age an issue, Logan,' she edged out. 'I wasn't too young to fuck these last two years.' She wasn't proud of the slice of satisfaction she felt at the words, the thrill of seeing that it hurt him, too; but it felt good.

He blanched, she shrugged, coldly. 'So, I'm young, too young, evidently,' she mocked, and his face acquired the controlled expression of before. 'And so you think I should go.'

He kicked the turf, half-turned away, strange edge, 'You need to choose. Go or stay. Do whatever you want…without regard to me.'

That last part—she let out a trembly breath, but spoke harshly. 'That sounds like you're breaking up with me, but without actually having the courage to do it.'

'No,' he bristled, 'I—'

'So you'd come with me then?' she jeered. 'You'd follow me wherever I went?' He froze. 'See that? That's—when you tell me to choose without regard to you, but when you only come with one of the choices, that's—that's breaking it off, to me.'

'Marie,' he began, less sure now. So she was Marie again, how transparent. She was in motion, pacing and swinging round, showing the agitation, hiding the faint sheen of tears.

'So why didn't you just say that to me? Instead of goddamn Xavier?' her voice was choking up with tears, she was nearly blinded by them, but the words came to her thick and before she could think about them. 'Why couldn't you say, 'Marie, we're done. And it would be so much easier if you weren't here afterwards. So go. I promise—' her last words strangled as she was hauled before him—'I p-promise you'll have a fabulous life.''

She was shaken, her name growled in a driven tone, and she didn't care if she wasn't being pretty or fair about this. 'That's not what I want,' he snarled.

'Well, then what the fuck DO you want, because that's sure as hell what it sounds like,' she thrashed impotently.

'I want you to choose me,' he bellowed, inches from her face, fingers gouging her shoulders.

She panted in front of him, hovering near tears, confused but largely angry still. 'I can't choose you,' she spat. 'You won't let me.'

He was trembling, let out a tremulous breath. 'No,' he shook her, 'Choose me, not just something you let happen because I want you to.' He let her go suddenly, and she stumbled back.

'Wh—?'

'I wanted you, and you let me. You let me keep you here when you were so young, let me take you and move you in with me, stayed with me. You let me have you, and I wanted it. But I want—I want you to want it, too.'

'Logan,' she quavered. 'I—I do.'

He snapped round, began to pace. 'Everyone said you were so young, that I had to be careful, go slow, not push ya. And I tried—' he broke off, whirled round again—'I thought…for a while, I made ya happy.' He halted, stood before her. 'You're not happy now, Marie.'

She reached for him, but he threw her off, retreated, and she grew angry now, 'I can't be happy all the time.' She pursued, touched his rigid back, took his irritated glare, and she was softer now, 'That doesn't mean that I don't want to be with you, don't—'

'STOP!' he abjured, goaded, knocking her hand away. 'I'm tired of it. Every decision, every step forward has always been mine. I'm tired of choosing for both of us, Marie. I'm tired of you letting me.'

And he looked more than tired of her; he looked contemptuous, bitter, and she reared back, closed up, teared up, 'That's not fair—!'

He loomed, spoke low and fierce. 'I don't give a damn what's fair. I want you,' he rasped, eyes hot,' and I'm not gonna apologize for it anymore.'

'No one is asking you to,' she gulped, gaining a midge of backbone.

'I want you,' he snarled, hands closing finger-by-finger round her upper arms, and she tilted up her chin, eyed him defiantly. And she felt their combined breaths, saw his nostrils flare, eyes grow dark.

'You HAVE me,' she declared.

Wrong thing to say. He grew rigid, all that desire flashed into rage, and she was hauled up, feet dangling, crushed rather painfully. 'FUCK YOU.' He dropped her, she stumbled and fell, scrambled up, to find him whirling round, claws suddenly out, and he—bam—punched them into a tree. Complete and utter silence, shock, and the claws made a dreadful groaning noise as he retracted them, staggered back.

She had never seen him lose it like that before. My God, and she didn't know how to be, whether to…she was trembling and upset, a little petrified, and God, what had set him off in the first place? 'Logan?' she whispered to his panting back.

He twisted round, stole towards her stealthily, and based on his feral expression, perhaps she had spoken too soon. 'I've never HAD you,' he accused, stalking her so that she was slowly backing away more than nervously. 'You don't let me in. There's only so much I can take.'

'Logan—' As a warning, it was pretty shaky.

'I choose you,' he barked, and she found herself suddenly bumping back into the tree he'd hit, and her eyes widening, nostrils flaring in panic, as he loomed, surrounded her. Then his face pressed close and fierce, 'Every goddamn day. I want more than you letting me.'

'I FUCKING choose you, too,' she thrashed, angry at being cornered, at being pushed. 'What do you think this is?'

'Want ME. Want it, too. Let me in. Let me show you.'

And she suddenly saw what he meant, as his hands slid in her hair, held her head firmly, and she cried in warning, 'My skin—'

'Let. Me. IN,' he insisted roughly, too rough, his hands digging in, and teeth bared.

'Logan, no,' saw he wasn't going to take no this time—too close, and she yelped something, pleaded, couldn't take it all in now: his memories and visions, his collapse, more in her head, too much there already. She pushed at his chest, tried to twist away, fumbled for the switch, desperately, manically—OFF—just before his lips slammed down on hers, punishing and cruel.

His fingers clenched in her hair, drew tears to her eyes, as he held her in place, and she could feel his hot breath and hard lips and teeth. Felt the hitch of his breath when he realized she wasn't draining him, and she was clutched tighter, his hands running over her, under her shirt, exploring bare skin again. His kiss changed, was less fierce, less angry, more desperate and needy, like he couldn't get what he wanted, like he could never get enough.

'Rogue,' he groaned, broken, cracked, and he cupped her head up to his, an open, hotter kiss, and she couldn't help kissing him back, pushing down tears, trying to figure out how the hell to fix this, when it seemed they both had what they wanted but had no idea how to take it.

His hands hard on her shoulders, and he broke off, rested his forehead on hers, she could feel the tremors through both of them, their panting, upset, unhappy breaths.

'You have to leave, Rogue,' he pushed her away roughly. 'You have to find your own life.'

'Are we back here again?' her voice sounded tremulous, undecided between tears and rage.

'You have control of it now,' he gestured vaguely, turned away. He looked miserable. 'Quit. Leave the X-men before it happens again.'

Anger then, was what she was going with. She sprinted after him, 'Logan,' sharply.

'NO,' he turned firmly, eyes dead and empty, thrust her neatly aside. 'Choose something that makes you happy, Marie,' he ordered, and he swiveled away and left.


	10. Choices

**IX: CHOICES—OR THE CONVERSATION THAT WOULDN'T DIE**

Well…here was the space she wanted.

Too fucking late for her to wanna accept it.

She resented him for the way he'd turned the tables, made her worry, made her defensive, seem the bad guy when it had started out so clear, so defined, with him squarely in the wrong. She resented how badly she'd expressed herself in the shock of it, how she hadn't been able to get him to listen. He could complain all he wanted about how he always decided, but that was the perfect example of how it was one-sided anyhow.

Well, FUCK HIM! How did this get to be her fault?! Stupid pansy. THICK ADAMANTIUM SKULL.

He was—he wanted her? Well, Christ, that might have been really nice to know! Before.

But…that was enough, enough to make her stay, enough to take this indignity, and the rest that were sure to come with him, enough to slap some sense into him. Just look! She was going to be with him, and that was her fucking choice!

So, shoot the messenger, she'd take the message. Thank Logan very fucking much.

Though, in wearily thinking about it, much of what he'd said was true. She did look to him to make decisions about them. She did follow his lead. She had followed his life here and not hers. And these past weeks, she hadn't been happy.

And, though this was tougher to admit, because she always thought of giving him everything, perhaps she hadn't let him in. With her skin, her leg, her dreams, perhaps other things, too. Trying to protect herself. And maybe, she'd always held back, because she'd needed it, because if she was ready to say yes to everything, she wanted a part of herself that was hers, too.

But she hadn't known. It had seemed natural that he should lead—more experience, older, more a part of every dealing in their relationship. She hadn't known he'd felt that way, and she hadn't wanted to push and lose him, with demands or unreasonable expectations or by trying to change him. She'd been young—and, yeah, compared to him, still was, that was true. And sometimes she felt like she'd loved him forever—but what was forever? Two years? Five since they'd met? Forever? She'd never really believed she'd get it.

He was Logan, she was Rogue. She'd thought it obvious—that she'd loved him, always had, that she'd take anything from him she could.

But, obviously, they were very bad at communicating with one another. And that was both of them. They'd relied too much on physical stuff, body language and looks and nuzzling and sex. It wasn't enough. Not for stuff like this. Interspersed with fighting, of course; and though, she had to admit to rather liking the 'clearing of the air' thing that happened at this last one, or any fight that involved much shouting, really…there must be better ways.

So she took some time, didn't follow him, thought about what it was she wanted, really wanted, and thought about how to say it.

And then she sought him out, expecting to find him in the garden smoking, or perhaps out on the bike, in the danger room maybe, doing something.

But he wasn't. He was in their dark room, sitting on the bed, face to the floor, hands to his head.

She turned on the light, and he didn't move. Took a moment, trod out carefully, skirted round to face him, careful not to crowd.

'We're very bad at talking to each other,' she observed, and he ran a hand through his hair, and she could tell he was calmer, calm enough, to listen. If he would. 'A lot of what you said was true,' she continued, and when he ran a hand through his hair this time, it was slightly shaky. 'But not all of it.'

She pressed her lips together, studied his down-turned head, almost despairing posture. 'Logan, I know I haven't been happy these last few weeks, and I shut you out because of it. And I'm sorry. That wasn't fair to you.' He might have been listening. He wasn't reacting. 'I was…jealous. And insecure. Bored. And physically, in pain. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry.'

'Jealous?' his head raised, he looked really baffled.

She sighed, winced—sure, go straight to that. 'For no good reason, nothing you did,' she clarified, trying to be fair. 'But…yes, jealous. Of—of Jean.' God, this was hard. No wonder they'd never done this. 'It was unfair. Stupid, I know.'

'Jean. From all that time ago?'

'You loved her, Logan,' she said softly. 'And I wouldn't have blamed you if—'

He reached out a hand, just touched her stomach, traced round to her hip. 'No.'

'It wasn't you, it was me. But I—'

'NO,' he stated more firmly, tugging her forward, craning his neck back to see. 'It was never Jean.'

She wasn't going to avoid this, look away from this anymore, but it was hard, the sincerity of his expression . 'I-I know. I know that now.' He was never like this, so still, so patient. 'I'm sorry I shut you out.'

'What else?' he insisted, one hand running up her side, then palming her stomach again, curling an arm round her. 'What else—you said insecure?'

Yes, insecure, still was, and it was…hard to admit to, and part of the reason she had trouble talking about it. She placed a hand on his shoulder, felt easier feeling the warm, sturdy reality of it. 'I had an injury, and-and poison skin and this distance between us—no job. I just…it felt—' Really not enjoying this.

She didn't want to offend him, or guilt him, or have him pity her—didn't want to relive it, either. But his eyes were searching, brow slightly worried, but not like before, when he was judging and unhappy with the conclusion—but open, questing, waiting for her to answer. She should, anyway.

'I felt useless, I guess, unwanted.' He let the silence hang there, and she was actually grateful, because she found herself suddenly wanting to explain more. 'And lazy, too. Bitter. Angry. Resentful. Easily annoyed.' She twitched her nose—that list didn't sound too positive, but it felt…true. Good to finally admit to. 'Sorry about all that,' she whispered low, and he traced, almost reverently her arm, her now-bare hand—reminded her of how he touched her years ago, before they'd ever been a couple.

'No, I'm sorry,' he eventually said. 'You don't have to be.'

'Well, you're not responsible for my feelings,' she demurred. 'Especially ones you didn't know I had.'

There was a heavy pause, before he said grimly, 'You weren't unwanted.' Never looked at her when he said things like that.

'I—I never said it was rational.' Small smile. He didn't find that funny. 'I'm just explaining why. It's not a good reason. It's just why.'

'Why—?' The lilt was so careful…

'Why I took it out on you. Pushed you away. Why I—' voice lowered now, 'why I didn't let you heal me. Didn't let you in. Had trouble talking to you, again and again. Why I yelled at you, many times.'

He was processing, processing—process already—and she nervously, 'Although I'm probably always going to yell at you. You piss me off sometimes, and I—'

'Rogue,' he stopped her—off-topic, that babbling. He was working himself up to saying something, and painful, the silence—spilling her guts here. 'I…I don't know how—I'm sorry. I—' he broke off, and she was a little concerned by how wrought he seemed to be by this. 'I don't know how to fix it.'

'I'm not asking you to fix it, Logan.' His grip loosened, fell away, and she pressed with more urgency, 'I should have trusted you more, should have…should have talked to you more. There are a lot of things I should have done before now that I didn't.' She promised, 'I'm gonna work on it.' And a complex emotion crossed his face—like he was getting something and losing it, and she wondered if she was shutting him out even there. 'But you could help me. I mean, you could let me in, too.'

He shot her an uncertain look, a guilty one. 'Like what problem, exactly, you have with my skin? You could try talking to me about it, instead of Scott or Xavier, Jean, even Hank.'

'Rogue,' very quiet, very serious. 'I don't have a problem with your skin. You do.'

'Well, yeah, of course I do. I have to cover up and be careful. And touching someone—plus, you know, the killing someone issue. But…I mean, it seems like…it's only natural that you may have some…feelings about it, too.

'It's fine. It's you.' So open his expression—he really wanted her to believe that, anyway.

'But Logan? All those comments about it, and going to Jean. Not wanting to discuss it afterwards…'

'I thought—' he swallowed, his touch became tentative, his gaze focused there—'I thought your skin was…might be…to keep me away.'

'No! No, it wasn't.' Was it? How could he— ? 'Not that.'

'I—ok. Prob'ly not,' he mumbled. 'I wanted… You said you wanted space. I tried to give it to you.'

'I didn't want that much. Just wanted you to stop hovering…treating me like a child, an invalid or something.'

'I wanted you to get better,' he whispered hoarsely, resting his forehead at her waist, wrapping arms around her more firmly.

'I'm better now,' she tried, and they held each other for several moments. But it felt more like comfort than together.

She drew back a little, lifted his head…and she really wanted to ask, thought she might be able to take the answer now. 'But long before, you seemed concerned about it. I came back from Ohio, and it hadn't turned off right away—you started interrogating me about it—' she could see his dawning comprehension—'—were upset about it, right before…the first time.'

'That was…' his throat was working—'a mistake,' he confessed guiltily.

Yeah. Yeah. That was hard to hear.

'I couldn't take it back,' he continued. She stared at something over his shoulder, focused on swallowing and breathing normally. 'It wasn't supposed to happen.'

'Ok,' she said tightly, could take it but didn't want to hear any more. It was in the past. He'd so recently said he wanted her, and that was now.

'I had been—I had wanted you for awhile, but I knew I shouldn't. Fuck, you were so young.'

'You had wanted me for awhile then?' News to her; she had always darkly suspected he had kissed her as-as part of the argument…and then, she had pushed it, pushed him into sex. 'So it wasn't my skin? A-a lesson? What I would be missing?'

'No, I wanted you to think about it. Be careful. It meant so much to you, being able to control it. But, no, I was…angry still, and touchin' you, wantin' you, and I—I'm sorry.'

'Logan,' she admonished, gripping his shoulders firmly, 'Don't be sorry.' He hung his head—must have misconstrued that.

'You were so young, too young,' he spoke absently, looked up, distant look, 'Still are.'

'Logan. STOP. I wanted you, too.' He remained obdurately silent, brooding, so she continued, in some impatience. 'I can't change my age for you. But I can tell you that I never felt like you were taking advantage. I can tell you that, even if you always made the first move, I always wanted it, too.'

He looked grumpy and guilty and determined to make the worst of this, and that was what she had to change if they were to ever… 'What do you want—for it never to have happened?' she persisted in exasperation.

'YES,' he hissed, ducking out and rising in some agitation to face her, several feet away. 'Not then. I—' He must have registered her look of pained shock, 'Ah, hell, I don't know. I shouldn'ta done it.'

Calm down, be logical about this—because he only…only half meant it. Shakily, 'You have got some massive guilt complex on, you know that?'

'Well, I should,' he answered shortly.

Frustrating, very stupid man; no winning in telling someone not to feel guilty.

'You seemed fine for two years. There was none of this guilt,' she challenged. 'What's so different about now?'

He became firm now, controlled—so strange how he could pull that shield down so quickly at times like this—'It wasn't working anymore. I always figured, when I couldn't go back and change it, that it was ok, it'd be ok, if it was working for you. But it wasn't anymore.'

'We've been over this. I explained that stuff was going on with me lately, and I can't be—'

He swallowed, pressed an anxious finger to her lips. 'And it wasn't working for me, either.' Fell away.

She sucked in a breath, told herself to concentrate on the argument. 'I thought you said you want me,' she challenged.

He shut his eyes. 'I do.'

'Well, then,' she plowed on, spoke with great emphasis, 'I want you, too.'

'No, Marie—'

'Listen, just—I'm willing to take responsibility for how I acted, how we got here. I'm willing to accept that that I need to be more assertive, need to choose. So, I am. W-we both want each other—I choose you.'

'Marie,' he shook his head, fingering her white lock, and she—for the first time, she recognized it as a distancing mechanism. And for the first time, she could see that he thought it was over. 'That's not enough.' Let go the lock: trying to persuade her that she should think it over, too.

'Why not?' Trying very hard to keep that steady. 'What would make it enough?'

'This isn't about that,' he swiped in some agitation, seemed to check himself, calm himself. 'It's about you.' He stepped back entirely, and…the distance felt insurmountable. 'You have to stop letting it happen. I have to stop letting you.'

'Letting it happen,' she parroted stupidly. 'What, you mean—Us? What makes you think…' Something about the words, she frowned, 'You mean, like Jean, what I said? You think for two years, I was with you just—' His pained, guilty look said that's exactly what he thought, and…ugh, DAMNIT—who did he think she was? Who did he think he was?

'What—because you're so goddamn easy?!' That did indeed shut him up, wiped that martyred look off his face. 'Well, listen up, bub, 'cause I take a lot of shit from you. I think we've established—you take a lot of shit from me?' He'd turned away; she gave him a good tug. 'Well, what makes you think we'd take it, unless we wanted it, unless I wanted it, too?'

'Rogue—' deep growl, lotta confusion—no real response.

She crossed her arms, pushed back a step. 'No, really. Feel free to come up with alternate theories here, Logan. I'm dying to know…why I put up with greasy boots and smelly socks, your scowls and snarls and brooding silences, your casual commands and irksome demands, that possessiveness, fucking overprotectiveness. And your cigars, which I admit, I sometimes like—'

'Marie…'

'—but the smell kinda lingers in the upholstery. Well?' Tapping her foot, and he looked close to bolting—never knew how to handle her like this, and she ran her hands through her hair, guilty and frustrated and itchin' to pace. Fuck, she was fucking this up. Grr, ready to throttle him!

Even keel, more even keel. 'Sorry,' sotto voce, 'sorry, but…it was kinda your turn.' She braved a look at him, and, shit, he'd frozen, more fucking distant than ever…and she'd probably hurt him there, too. Just—level with him. 'Look, I don't know have my life all figured out, don't know everything I wanna do. I just know, whatever it is, I want to do it with you.'

'Y-you want me.' Not really a question, but evidently just the knowledge could paralyze him.

'Yes,' indelicate snort, trying to suppress an almost disgusting display of tears. 'Yes, Logan, I do.' Just gonna to go up to him and just sort of cling for awhile, see how that worked. 'I want you, I choose you, I fucking love you, ok?' Much easier to say this to his shirt, and he wasn't flinging her away yet, either. All positive, non-negative signs. Thick, thick skull—goddamn thick, thick skull.

She felt a soft hand in her hair—and she hated being a girl: she was going to cry or hit him. 'We can make this work, can't we?' she appealed, and when she looked up, he looked uncertain, too, just overwhelmed…like he didn't know how to move forward, small tentative touches to her brow, her hair, her shoulder still. Torn and regretful and yearning, still.

'We can make this work, and we're gonna,' she grabbed him. 'Because you want me and I want you, and I love you. And I'm really good at saying no, and, no surprise, so are you, and we're going to talk more and tell each other things and decide things together.'

He blinked.

'So…that's what we're gonna do. And…I'm going to treat this as a unanimous decision, here, u-unless you object, or—or have something you wanna add or change or something.'

Long moment, and she hoped he couldn't—knew he could—hear her heart racing, and no one could mistake the uneven breathing, but he just said, 'No.'

'Good,' she huffed. 'Ok. Glad you agree.' She eyed him, and he eyed back. 'That's settled.' And then she stood there stupidly, absently clinging, the moment going on and on, and they eyed each other uncomfortably.

'Huh, well. That was anticlimactic.' She peered up at him. 'Wasn't it? That ended really, really quickly.' Not that she wanted him to object, but…

She backed up a few confused steps, trying to think: if that was it, then what did they do now? Just the whole of their lives, she guessed. Life, the universe, and everything, and now that she thought about it, there were a lot of decisions to be made. Like: what she was gonna do for work, what they would tell Xavier, what they would do with their lives, how much she would dare with her skin, what would happen politically in the next few months, and how they were gonna live. Really exhausting, being the decider, and she felt for Logan a bit more than she had. Although following a leader who was making it up along the way—no picnic, either.

But he tugged her back for a second, slight hesitation in his touch, his voice. 'You—you love me?'

She loved how he cut through the crap. 'Yeah,' the slow smile not something she could help. She was going to kiss him…

But he grabbed her arms firmly, forced them apart. 'How long?' so interrogative, so demanding, so…Logan. Always making questions sound like commands, since the beginning.

'Oh, weeks and weeks…and weeks,' she teased, just smiling, and distracted by his mouth, which, she realized after a moment, wasn't. Oh, yeah, the question, his eyes harder now and searching hers. 'Since the beginning, sugar.' She reached up on tiptoes to kiss him again, but he stopped her, a breath away from his lips.

'Which beginning?' Wh—how many were there? He was seriously cutting into make-out time, but he looked almost nervous about her answer, so if he really had to nail it down—

'Since you touched me, since you fucked me, since you kissed me. Since you picked me up in your trailer and asked me my name. Since you promised you'd be back and did. Since you trained me and healed me and put up with my shit and did your damnedest to send me away. Since the beginning.' His withdrawn look made her pause, ask, 'Is that ok?'

'Since the beginning,' he echoed, and his suddenly tight grip told her it was ok. 'You were young then.' Almost a question.

She grinned. 'I'm older now, and it just gets better.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. You'll just have to wait and see.'

Leaning in for the—

'I'll go with you,' he interjected, sharp step back, and she was left kissing empty air.

Rats. Fine. So the rest of the talk was now.

'If you ask me, I'll go with you,' he repeated, almost formally.

That 'if', the 'ask', the noble, martyred expression…she was very tired suddenly.

'No,' she sighed. 'I'm not asking.' And he faltered, closed down. Shit, they had more problems than she thought. 'Come here.' It was the first time she'd ever said that to him, and it threw him off, too, took him a few moments, and he was hesitant. She placed her hands lightly on his hips, just a link. 'I'm not asking because I thought we'd already decided that we're staying together, that we're deciding together. So I'm telling you, Logan, I'm operating under that assumption, but I need to know if you're doing that, too.'

His grip tightened fractionally, then relaxed. 'Yes,' he inhaled sharply. 'I am.'

'Good. Now. Do you want to go?'

'Rogue—'

God, they still sucked at this. 'Look, I'm not going to let you put this all on me, just reverse our roles. We're going to decide this together. So, I don't want to go. Do you?'

He eyed her with distaste. 'I don't want you to stay for me.'

'I don't want you to go for me.' He shot her a frustrated look. Maybe it was time to tell him what she did want. 'I want you to stop feeling guilty. I want you to stop feeling like you're walking all over me. Stop being so…so careful with me!'

He ran a hand through his hair. 'I have to be careful,' he gritted, speaking almost to himself. 'Have to be. Because I know—anytime I want I can get you to agree.'

She felt so many things in response to that: anger, yes, and wounded pride, disbelief, mystification. But the charge was so ludicrous. 'Oh, yes?' she stuck her tongue in her cheek, though she doubted he could see. He'd begun to pace. 'Well, let's see. Go ahead. Try your methods of persuasion out on me.'

'It's not funny, Marie,' he chided, still with the pacing.

'It's a little funny, sugar,' she maintained, but yes, it was a little less funny. She was growing offended. 'Your ego is bigger than even I suspected. And you also need your memory checked. I say no to you all the time. All. The. Time.'

He grunted.

'Have you forgotten my leg, my stupid fucking leg? I'm not saying I won't be stubbornly wrong when I say no, just that I can say no and mean it.' She yanked him back, tried to hold him still, and he was trying. 'You can trust me on this: if I mean no, I say it. And if I say ok, it means that, too: ok.'

'But it's never yes,' he accused, shook her off. 'It's hesitation or ok, sometimes no. It's never yes.'

And as he said it, her mind flashed…to the start of their relationship, moving in, becoming an X-men. Over and over again. And maybe this was why he didn't trust her, had reservations. He was wrong, but perhaps he had reason. Because if she'd never felt secure, she'd also never been quite sure.

'Yes,' she admitted finally. 'Yes, that's true. Sometimes I was unsure, or didn't know. Sometimes you pushed…But I never meant no.' She made a grab for him, 'Come here, ya big lug.' And he came, grudgingly now.

'How was I supposed to know?' he batted her hands away ill-temperedly.

'You weren't. My fault. I'm sorry. I promise to work on it from now on.' He eyed her dubiously. 'And if I don't, call me on it! Ask me, outright. Scowl and snarl if you must. I give you permission.'

'I thought you didn't like my scowling and snarling,' he scowled.

She gave a half-snort, but it held affection. 'Part of the package, sugar.' She held him loosely at the shoulders, waited 'til he was looking at her to make this point. 'I'm strong enough to take you. Ya know, if you're strong enough to take me?' she tried, but he didn't crack a smile.

'Sometimes…' he began in a strange tone, studied her. 'Sometimes, I think you are.' He sighed and turned away, sat rather wearily on the bed once more.

'I am,' she pursued, puzzled, trying not to worry. 'I'm strong, and I'm not scared of you. I've seen you kill. I've seen you wild. I've seen you wildly angry with me. Today, that mission—

'That's not the worst of me,' he interjected. Tiredly.

'I appreciate it. I haven't shown you the worst of me, either.' He shook that off, angry glare, and ok, maybe it wasn't the same thing. But she didn't get this. She knew him, she'd seen, and…couldn't he see HER?

'I—I could force you,' he edged out after a moment.

Something she saw in his posture, something like shame, moved her to ask, 'How much force are we talking?'

He jerked his shoulder, turned down and away—so that much force. She sighed and slumped beside him on the bed. Because if he was going to go there, what could she say? It was true.

'Well, if you're going there, you have to admit we're pretty even. I could always kill you, if I wanted.' She peeked up, and he was very still, very quiet. 'But I don't, and you don't, either.' She exhaled heavily, prepared to confess it all. 'Although I was prepared to. Wolverine. That the mission. I was prepared to drain you, anyway.'

She wanted to say she was sorry, wished she could. But she didn't know how, not when she knew she'd do it again.

'I know,' he said, arm creeping round her. 'I'm glad,' squeezing gently, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Because he forgave her too easily for that, trusted her too much with it. He always had. She supposed they were pretty even in that, too.

She slid onto his lap, straddled him so their eyes were even, to force him to see.

'Look, I'll take the worst of you, if you'll take the worst of me,' she smiled sadly, his eyes so dark and close, reflecting back at her. 'I'll take the worst because I'm getting the best, too. That best can be pretty wonderful.'

'Ok,' he finally agreed, and at her raised brow, his mouth quirked very slightly. 'Yes.'

Good, a joke even. And she loved him. Although he seemed to need telling, again and again. Maybe that was her fault. 'So what do you want? Do you want to leave?' she prompted.

Maybe he did. He'd been here a long time, actually. She was beginning to think that living with him, touching him didn't help her much at all.

He growled low, and she wondered if he'd ever tell her things without this hesitation.

'I don't want you to be an X-man anymore. I don't want you go out on missions anymore.' Ferocious glare, too.

Ah, she was beginning to understand his reticence.

'I don't like them for you, either. But I'm not going to tell you not to. And I won't let you tell me.'

He leaned in, he challenged. 'No?'

'No,' she pressed back, and when it took him so long to relax, she knew it hadn't been for show, not entirely.

'Damn obstinate,' he muttered, but a gritty smile. He did, in fact, prefer her that way.

'Goes both ways, sugar.'

She got a more natural grin back, but it faded slowly, and he found her hand, traced the fingers as he used to, before they'd ever been a couple. 'Not always. Not recently.' He looked up. 'What changed?'

She didn't know if she could explain everything, but at its heart, it was simple. 'I—it was up to me this time. You said I had to choose.' She curled her hands around his. 'I loved you. It was easy.'

He seemed to ponder that. Hesitantly, 'So I should leave everything up to you?'

'How well would that work?' she scoffed, and he frowned, looked away. 'No, I think it should work…by you calling me on my shit, and me calling you on yours. And you telling me what you want, and me telling you.' He regarded her steadily, and she gave a half-laugh, 'Actually, I think we're pretty good at the first part. It's the second part that needs work.'

He gave a half-smile back, and he was serious. It was exhausting being this serious. 'So what do you want?'

'You,' she answered, about all she was sure of now. 'I mean, maybe it's wrong, and you're right that it's bad. But the thing I want most, it's you.' She traced his brow, swallowed. 'I could live without you. But I don't want to.'

'I want you, too,' he returned, so solemnly she was in danger of crying again. She swallowed.

'I could stand to hear that more often, sugar. You know, without the yelling bit?' She smiled, but it wasn't really a joke. He cupped her head, a thumb making a swipe across her cheek, and yes, those were treacherous tears he was wiping away.

'Sorry,' he whispered.

She grabbed his hand, pressed it. 'Me, too.'

Ok, enough with the dramatic moments, the tears and declarations.

She blinked back, drew back, arranged herself more comfortably on his lap, a distraction. 'You realize nothing has been decided? Still!' she reminded him dejectedly. 'We suck at this. Why do you think that is?' Picking absently at the seam on his shirt.

'We're getting better,' he offered, hopefully.

God, that was so cute. She softened. 'Yeah, we are. We will. Can the rest wait, though? I'm exhausted.'

He smiled, and she buried her head in the crook of his shoulder, took a moment to breathe him in. She wished she had more energy; she'd do something about all this turned-off skin, for one. But there were compensations to just being held, too. Lovely circles he was drawing on her back. Mmm... 'I had a terrible day today. Up 'til now.' Yeah, that was a whine. But she was tired. 'How 'bout you?'

There was silence for a few moments, and then she felt it—rumbling, vibrations deep in his chest, and when she leaned back to take a look, he was laughing, really laughing. And suddenly she was, too.

They flopped back on the bed together, rolled over, smiled, and he reached out a hand, touched her cheek. 'We'll be ok.'

'Sugar, for all this work, we better be better than ok.'

He grinned, one of those slanted, amused ones. 'We'll be good, then.' Sexy smile there, too. He was gorgeous and hers, and she loved him. She was beginning to believe him, too.


End file.
